February Dogs
by BruinBastard
Summary: Medic origin story. Historical fiction with TF2 canon. Explores the question of what made the Medic who he is and how he came to be a mercenary. M for violence, coarse language, and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

Happy reading!

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The street was empty save a hurried figure picking his way past the deepest puddles caught in the cobbled sidewalk. His footsteps echoed loudly up and away through the gloomy townhouses much to his chagrin. To be out and free of work at midday was to be loitering, a crime of no small consequence, only deepening his anxiety with every scraping step. No commuters to blend into, no bodies to hide among. He stood out alone and illegal, begging to be stopped by the first official passing by.

And idleness charges were the least of his concerns at the moment. Subconsciously slender fingers, slightly trembling, pulled the collar of his coat closer in a fruitless attempt to conceal his identity. The reality of the situation was that he would be doomed on sight, a glaring apparition moving at a frantic pace just shy of a jog.

What a fool he was. Everything, every action already taken stood out in unchangeable lucidity. Every better path should have chosen tantalizingly impossible. He wanted to scream. He desperately wanted to run, caught up in the fullest stride he could manage while everywhere behind him in places he couldn't see immutable footsteps called out to hungry onlookers. Louder and louder, those footsteps grew. Clanging like alarm bells. Their calls screaming like sirens. Any moment now, he was agonizingly aware, any moment now he would see someone coming to stop him.

However, like a blessing to a sinner his own front door miraculously appeared before him. Fumbling he fit a stubborn key into the lock and jammed the door open, pounding veins and skipping stomach relaxing slightly.

"Klaus?" A woman's voice called from the other room, surprised. "Klaus is that you? Are you ho-"Coming around the corner she froze dead upon the sight of her husband's pale face, sweat beaded upon his brow, and the image of wild terror in his eyes as an unwelcome blast of chilly air streamed past him and the door slammed shut. She paused there for a moment, slowly dusting flour from her hands.

"Monika," He choked, quelling an errant break of his voice. With a gulp he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started again. Calmly, he said, "Monika, dearest, fetch your coat. We have to leave now."

"Bu-"

"Now!" He wheezed urgently, halting a painful wail from escaping the back of his throat. Throwing open the hall closet he grabbed her winter jacket and proceeded to drape it onto his baffled wife.

She protested, trying to throw the coat off as he struggled with her "But Klaus-!"

"Monika!" He grabbed her shoulders and turned her square to him, staring desperately into her eyes. She stilled and met his gaze, the color slowly draining from her face. After a moment, he said, "Monika. The Gestapo. They're-"

"No Klaus-" She said uttered pendulously, quietly interrupting him. All the blood in her body, all of her heart flushing down and away from her.

"We have to-"

"No, Klaus-"Her voice was brittle, creaking distantly, parched and white.

"I love you." He said, brokenly.

"No, no." She moaned softly. Eyes closed.

They hung there for a moment, balanced on a precipice. Looking at him again she noticed absently his careworn features. That piercing pain in his eyes. The depths of his guilt. All of his regrets lay plain to see transfixed in every gram of his expression, somewhere between pure devotion and blind animal fear. He clung to her as if she'd disappear right there before him. Did it matter?

Gently, but with hated purpose, she let herself be maneuvered down the hall, back through the kitchen, and outside into their once happy garden – ages ago grown cold from want. He disappeared hurriedly past the gate and down into the alley out of sight. A few moments later he pulled up with their car, which lugged a little as the cold engine struggled against anxious demands.

Hopping out, Klaus strode quickly back over, gently ushering her to the passenger seat. His touch was distracted, faded with the hint of panic, but nonetheless she felt his love broadcast through the heavy mask of concern. As she stooped into the car she looked at him once more, locking him down with her eyes. "_Such a stupid man._" She thought. But none of it really mattered now, there was nothing she could do.

After the briefest hesitation, he closed the solid black door behind her and jogged over to the driver's seat. Quickly, and with visible relief, he jammed the warming car in gear and sped off. Monika did not know where they were going and she very nearly didn't care. They were as good as dead, it was just a matter time. Klaus was entirely bent the task though, every bit of his stiff posture said this. He was trying at least.

They were too young to die.

After a while of driving, her pallor of apathy gave way and mechanically she asked him, "So, Klaus. What happened?"

He flinched, but whether it was from the fear of what was to come or the pain of answering her question she could not tell. Hesitantly he pushed his glasses up the bridge of this nose – an old tic had that started around the same time as the war– and said, "The worst that could happen." He added on meekly, "Dearest." After a few moments of driving and a couple of turns to head in a direction clearly out of town, he continued. "I was very careful, but some of the older surgeons started to notice what was going on. Hartzell, in particular." Again the glasses were pushed up. "Max warned me that I was being reported while I was operating, so I-" He glanced sideways out the window. The main road out of town had been roadblocked with a checkpoint for some time now, though the less-travelled route they were on would avoid it. This was lucky. "-finished up." He paused slightly, "And came straight home."

She noticed the pause. Klaus was never very good at hiding anything, as he was hiding now, and in hindsight she was not exactly surprised that he had been discovered. But at the time his nobler plans of quiet subterfuge seemed quite reasonable, tenable even. She chuckled imperceptibly to herself. They were finished, and after having survived for so long too.

Monika felt the burden on her heart lift gradually as acceptance of their mutual destruction seeped quietly inwards. It was really not like any other outcome was possible. Everywhere every person or entity they knew that resisted the National Socialists had been destroyed. Why would they be any different? She looked over at her husband. Companion of seven long and hard years. Though he was tensed and aged from worry he was still in his prime – as handsome as the day they had first met.

That was a happier time. She mused with the briefest pensivity. Before the shortages. Before the air raids. Before it became clear that the war had been lost and all the hopeless insanity was for naught. The most maddening of all was that even while the Party was failing it continued to chew the country up from the inside out.

Klaus noticed her gaze and returned it. She smiled at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. Reaching over, Monika squeezed his arm and said, "I'm proud of you."

"I'm so sorry." He choked, voice heavy. It was almost a sob.

Another squeeze from her silenced him. Their lives were caught up in this monster and from the beginning, she knew, they were as likely to live as to die.

After a while and a few more turns the bomb-shattered suburbs of Stuttgart gave way to the countryside. It was late February and the muddy remnants of the last snow lay everywhere.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a long period of silence.

"I'm taking you to Max. He has a plane. He's going to fly you out of here."

"What?" She said, genuinely surprised. It was incredible, and for a fleeting moment there was a flicker of hope. Yet instantly this was replaced by the most aching and gnawing horror. "Klaus," She said carefully, even fearfully. "Klaus, you're flying out too." It was a statement. It couldn't be anything but a statement.

"No Monika." He replied slowly and looked her way for a moment, quietly. "I'm responsible for this mess. I'm responsible for you. This is the best chance we have – that you have – to get out of here alive." She was silent and he continued, "We're lucky to have Max at all, and that he's willing to take you. The fact that he even has the petrol is a miracle." He shook his head, "We've had this planned out for almost three years now. A contingency just for this situation." As he said this they turned off the main road onto a forest drive. The slush on the ground made traction difficult and Klaus was quiet for a while in concentration. He then continued, "You'll go west at low altitude until you can make it into the Allied controlled zone well past the front lines. I'll head as far west as I can by train, and go the rest of the way however it is possible. Australia is about to enter the war, and it will be over soon for everyone." He paused. "That should make travel easier."

"I'm not leaving you Klaus!" Monika cried, tears welling in her eyes. "You can't do this, I won't do it!"

"Monika please!"

"Klaus, they will kill you! They will kill me!" She buried her face in her palms, sobbing hotly. "If you make me go, I will never see you again. I can't bear it! I won't!"

"Monika, this is all my fault!" He yelled suddenly, fist slamming the steering wheel. This outburst silenced her, and after a moment he continued quietly, painfully, "Can't you see? What kind of man would I be if I let you die for my own stupid actions? If there's one of us that is to die, it will be me. And if there is one to live, it must be you." Reaching over he took her hand and held it. "Don't worry about me. I love you and I swear I will find you."

She shuddered from the tears and from his touch and swallowed the dread in her throat.

The rest of the drive was accomplished in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Under the shadow of the trees, old snows had yet to melt. All around the world seemed muffled and sullen; silence permeating but for the ancient whine of dying wood and the soft thuds of their feet picking gingerly up the trail Max had left. Sporadic gunfire and the gentle thrumming of chaos could be heard with strain, but it ran like an underground stream, the pulse of some place far removed from the cold comfort of evergreens.

The forest grew denser the further they moved from the road, swallowing the car and wrapping them in the soft rise and fall of the shrouded landscape. Small flakes drifted down from above, shimmering in the invisible submarkian air currents.

Struggling up an icy rise, Monika slipped, the soles of her shoes entirely inadequate for the task. Immediately Klaus's hand rose to steady her, and slowly he moved with her up the hill. A despondent look hung about him, and he avoided her gaze. Her own features could not have differed much. Together the last hour, their last hour together, had been spent in silence. Repeatedly, Monika had to swallow back the tears and the knot in her throat. Occasionally panic would rise from some wild place within her, and her mind would race frantically for a way out. But the truth was hopeless. Klaus had in fact come up with the best option, however painful it was, and it would be simply foolish not to take this chance.

But the idea of them separating. A paltry whimper escaped her throat as she struggled with another wave of violent despair. As the world was falling to pieces.

Klaus glanced at her worriedly, with a heavy exhale. He too seemed just barely held together, the supporting arm over her shoulder a habitual gesture. An empty promise.

All that they had was each other.

Quickly Monika drew Klaus to her, pulling him into a tight embrace as she shivered against his chest in sorrow.

"Monika." He trailed off, holding her.

They stood there for a while in the snow, he rocking her absently in his arms, time slipping away in that forest, thunder rolling in the distance, frost stretching and slowing every perception until there was nothing but the two of them and what they shared. Even if fate was tearing them apart, as had happened to so many now, she at least still had the time they spent together. Those wonderful years, however short and fleeting, were worth whatever the cost.

"Klaus." Monika said after a quiet eternity, looking up to his tear-soaked face. "I love you."

"I love you too." He replied, voice heavy and breaking.

Slowly releasing him, she took his hand in hers and started once again up the long trail of boot-prints.

After some time the trudging became less difficult and side by side they continued along the path. A faint breeze stirred the air at ground level, while the tall firs remained still from their lofty vantage. Gradually the forest thinned, along with the snow, and husband and wife were met with a clearing of dormant grass broken up by sparse patches of ice where the sun didn't reach. Klaus squeezed her hand as he looked down the tree line and pointed out a ungainly brown mass about three hundred meters distant. Together they made their way across the field, as they came closer the shape of a familiar man ducked out from behind the now apparently camouflaged structure.

Dr. Maximilian Hirth was a tall, serious, and outspoken man. Twenty years Klaus's senior he had lived through the worst their country had to offer, twice, and didn't care much for orders or direction these days. He was an extremely capable surgeon and had taught Klaus far more, the younger man felt, than he had ever learned in school. Now the aging warrior stood before them as he did back in his vigorous youth, dressed for a long cold flight, a valiant escape from the primitive regime he held in such contempt. Certainly Maximilian was one of the old breed, a hardened veteran from the Great War with little patience for what he felt was the excessive vanity of later generations. Yet, unlike his contemporaries who possessed that dogged Prussian obedience to authority ("duty" they called it) he felt the current State, as it were, to be a betrayal of his beloved homeland.

As Klaus and Monika approached, Max pulled at the earth-colored tarp revealing a large biplane at least thirty years old. With a sweeping gesture he addressed the hulking form.

"The old Albatros." He called in a gruff, unfriendly tone as if he held great contempt for the light fabric aircraft. "Nearly killed me a few times trying to keep this thing hidden over the years, and I wasn't even flying it!" He suddenly broke out into brusque laughter. "At least now we'll see if all the effort was worth all the danger." Turning, he strode over to Klaus and Monika, shaking the former's hand and paying gentlemanly deference to the latter. "It's good to see you two out alive . The weather is very agreeable for the moment and with some luck we will soon be setting down well past Allied lines." He was speaking more to Monika when he said this. Turning to Klaus, Max took the younger man roughly by the arm and led him away a distance, calling over his shoulder, "I borrow your husband for only a moment, madam." Turning to Klaus he hissed, "Just what in the glory of God and all His good earth were you thinking back there?"

"I presume you're talking about the patient?" Klaus said hotly, wrenching his arm free and pushing up his glasses.

"His entire skeleton, Klaus? Granted, it was a brilliant operation and the bastard deserved it." Max added in an odd mix of excitement and fury, "But what about Monika?"

Klaus looked away. The biplane stood there, two rickety wheels and a tail skid. Two fabric wings and two open seats. What the devil had he been thinking?

"Any leniency she may have gotten is out of the question now. And what if this plan doesn't work?" Max continued, "If we go down and they find her-"

"Enough!" Klaus snapped "With all due respect Max, there's nothing you're saying here I haven't already considered." He fought the rush of guilt and self-loathing rising in his stomach for the one hundredth time that day.

"Is everything okay Dr. Hirth?" Monika called from near the plane, casually fingering the rib-like stringers under the smooth painted fabric.

"Perfectly alright, madam. Your husband and I are just discussing contingencies." Max called back in a chipper tone. "So, what about you Klaus?" He added in an ominous, serpentine manner.

"What about me?" Klaus responded warily.

"What reason have you given them not to shoot you on sight?"

There was no reason.

"Well?"

"I'll figure it out."

"The hell you will boy!" Max thrust his finger in Monika's direction, who had climbed up the side of the plane near the rear cockpit, snarling, "If you have any respect for that poor girl you married and any decency as a man you will." His eyes were coals of fury as he added shortly, "Imbecile."

There was silence as the men stared each other down, one a cur and the other the master. Dr. Maximilian Hirth, in fact, loved Klaus as a son. Upon the young man's arrival to Max's ward, the older surgeon saw immediate promise in the former and took him as a protégé. A childless widower, Hirth reveled in Klaus's growing aptitude and accomplishment under his direction. Klaus had often come to his mentor for advice, both professional and personal, and they shared similar opinions and tastes on many subjects. It was only natural that when Maximilian espied a unique opportunity to resist the regime from within the walls of their very hospital that he broached the subject first with Klaus. And of course the young surgeon immediately supported his cause. The two had only become closer through their mutual clandestine operations.

To Klaus's visible surprise, the older man started to chuckle quietly, slapping him on the shoulder. "What a right mess you've gotten yourself into now, my boy." He sighed. "Well, to each his own. You've made your choices and now you'll have to live with them." Max looked over to the plane wistfully. "You're a brave man. Like the old men. Just a little stupid sometimes. I'm not sorry at all for leading you here." He raised his eyebrows. "You're best bet, I'd say, is to try and wait it out long enough for the Australians to come in and end this mess." There was a pause. "How you'll do that I can't say. The wolves will be one you in no time."

"Yes, I know." Klaus said, watching his wife watch him from the biplane's cockpit. For all her enormous strengths, she looked so tiny and so exposed. He pushed up his glasses. "Well, shall we get to business?"

"Ah, of course!" Max nodded, clasping his hands smartly behind his back and striding over to the aircraft, his riding boots spraying tufts of snow out across the frozen grass. "Mrs. von Gersdorff, my dear, I'm afraid I must ask you to vacate your present position. That is, unless you plan on flying us to France!"

"Oh, of course Dr. Hirth." Monika climbed out of the aft cockpit carefully and made her way over to Klaus. "What was that all about?" She whispered to him.

"Nothing important dear," He replied, taking her hand. "Don't worry about it."

"Klaus, are you familiar with the Abatros B-Two?" Max asked as he started to look over the entire aircraft.

"I'm afraid not," Klaus replied, "It's from the war I would imagine."

Max straightened up, "But of course man. This little bird flew reconnaissance. And I in her. Or one like her that is. Mine was shot down." He climbed up the side cowling and paused over the engine, taking his time on this part of the inspection. "The Mercedes six cylinder. Inline obviously. Very popular." Satisfied he jumped down. "Well," He said, walking back over to them, "The Mrs. will sit up front." With a quick glance to Klaus he said. "Do you, eh, have anything warmer with you?"

Monika shook her head, but Klaus unbuttoned his own coat and placed it around her shoulders.

"No Klaus! You'll freeze." She was about to protest more, but a laugh from him silenced her.

"I'll be fine." He said, a strange half-smile on his face. For all the terror and anxiety distilled from the past three years today, it was relieving to know at least one of his decisions was correct. Monika would be safe away with a trusted colleague. At least he wouldn't have to worry about her.

She immediately understood the finality of his expression. It was time. When he leaned in she returned his kiss, and they embraced for the last time.

Tears welling in her eyes, Monika allowed Max to guide her to the aircraft and assist her into the fore cockpit. From her vantage point above the two men, she noticed how brittle Kraus looked standing there in nothing but his shirt amidst the snow and dead grass, deep in this frozen forest. She wrapped his coat more tightly around her, feeling the last of his warmth, his scent still clinging to the fabric.

"Do you know how to prop-start an engine?" Max asked.

"What?" Klaus asked incredulously, snapping out of his trance.

"Come with me." Max said briskly, making for the front of the aircraft. "Stand right here, hold the propeller here." He positioned Klaus back towards the engine side of the prop. "No not like that – like this!" He paused, looking the situation over. "Good. Now when I say 'contact' pull it clockwise. As soon as the cylinders fire, get away." He went back and climbed into the cockpit. "Mrs. Gersdorff, are you ready?" He asked.

"Yes, Dr. Hirth." She replied, watching her husband ahead of her. All visibility out the front was severely limited though, from the angle they sat above the ground.

"Alright then." Replied Max, placing a leather flight cap and goggles over his head. He called to Klaus, "Brakes set! Fuel set!" A pause. "Contact!"

Klaus pulled the heavy wooden propeller down once. Twice. The second time it turned through the cylinders started to fire and he stepped back. Half a moment later the icy blast of propwash ripped through his shirt and tie as the engine roared to life.

"Good work boy! Now get away from there!" Max called jovially, adjusting the engine rpm for the warm up. "The first time in twenty-five years I've sat in the slipstream!" He laughed. "And the last time I was flying to France too."

Klaus made his way past the wing next to where Monika sat and looked up at her.

She met his gaze. It was quiet, and tranquil even. The first time she'd seen it so in years. He stood there, his hands casually in his pockets as he smiled at her. Shirt fluttering violently in the prop blast. Glasses askew. She was painfully aware that this was the last time she would see him. She reached out her hand for his, which he took, and she mouthed the words she now only wanted the chance to say again. "I love you."

"Alright Klaus, not a moment to lose! We are off!" Dr. Maximilian Hirth cried, gunning the engine.

Klaus let go and stepped back as the empennage twisted away with a roar.

"See you in Paris boy!" Came a call as the plane taxied back to the start of the trees, bouncing on its skid. Turning tightly about the engine galloped to full throttle, sending plumes of snow spraying behind it in white clouds. With a bumbling splendor the wood and fabric monstrosity accelerated down the grassy track. The tail came up and shortly after it was airborne and climbing rapidly above the trees. A tight bank to the west, and it was gone.

Rising in the frigid air, Monika watched her husband disappear, swallowed up by the vast forest. In all directions, black columns of smoke were crawling sullenly into the sky. Behind the bellowing engine they were hurtling towards that inky oblivion, through it, to some invisible and unknowable future.

Klaus stood in the clearing long after Monika was out of sight, and out of sound. The air of the forest grew still again apart from that deadly creaking of the trees. The cold was setting in causing him to shiver slightly beneath his thin shirt. Adjusting his glasses, he started the long walk back. The frantic drive out, the run from the hospital, it all seemed ages away now that she was gone.

But slowly, as if rolling out of a dream, the reality of what he must do returned. Foremost he had to survive and evade every secret police member in the greater Stuttgart area to somehow catch a train. It seemed ridiculous. He was not particularly strong, or sneaky, and certainly not violent. The idea of making it through the city center unharmed was laughable.

Perhaps not impossible though. The evening commuting trains would be packed with people trying to avoid the nasty business along roads these days. He simply needed to pull up in front of the station, get out, get a ticket, and get on. The 5:20 was always the busiest. It could be done quickly. There would be plenty of people to duck behind if anything came up.

This was good. Klaus loosened his tie and started to jog. If he hurried now he'd be able to make it in time and be well out of town before anyone was the wiser.

Then after that? The roads? The checkpoints?

Far above him as he picked his way through the frigid air and ice, the tall firs began to howl as a strong wind savaged their boughs. The grey trunks rocked imperceptibly as snow fell all around.


	3. Chapter 3

It certainly was not the most beautiful time of year. In between seasons the snow had not yet left in the higher places, but likely would not return either. The trees and grasses were all still dead, the songbirds were still gone, and the warmth of spring would not touch this part of the world for another two weeks. It was that time where winter seems longest, dragging along endlessly in a grey, cheerless manner.

Klaus listened to the radio intently as he drove, slowing slightly while passing long lines of men digging ditches by the side of the road. They all wore uniforms like prisoners, though they were not. Technically.

As he had suspected, the war must be still be going badly. It took a careful ear to infer the real news behind the inflated reports of sweeping victory. Though they had never lost a battle, those battles were taking place closer and closer to their true borders. Despite unbelievable triumph on the Eastern front at Leningrad and Stalingrad two years ago, they were now fighting the Red Army in Poland. The Western front was even more troublesome to pinpoint. Six months ago, as far as he could tell, there must have been a massive invasion of France. But information about this attack was extremely hard to come by. There were no reports of victory because, like a blackout, there were no reports at all.

A striking number of public announcements had been circulating, however, about Australian technology. It was every citizen's sworn patriotic duty to deliver any item related to the Australians at once to their nearest State official. There were heavy implications of treason if one failed to do so. Not that anyone would fail to do so, because there were no traitors. Every citizen was perfectly happy, wonderfully productive, and entirely devoted to the war effort.

The number of conscripted patriots being sent west though, didn't lie. For months now column after column had passed through Stuttgart by rail and road. The number of mutilated heroes returning was information enough about what was really going on.

And there were always the air raids. For some time now the outer industrial areas – distributed through the suburbs – had been subject to a sporadic number of air attacks. Nothing too damaging, most of the carnage was limited to the aviation, munitions, and of some of the many automobile plants. Collateral damage had been small, he had been told. It was still shocking though, to see the results of such violence. Whole blocks raised by incendiaries and high explosives. The homeless were everywhere.

Klaus sighed. The very idea of the city being bombed was repugnant. It was a beautiful place, a product of nearly a thousand years of cultural and intellectual innovation. The very heart of Wurttemberg. It was surreal, heartrending, to see it disfigured by the State. By the war. Everywhere, every street corner, was occupied by the Party in one way or another. Posters and flags hung, statues raised, even the names of ancient plazas were changed according to State Agenda. His stomach turned in bilious rage. It was despicable. The places of his memory corrupted and erased, and for what? His uncle's vineyard in the next valley, where he spent so many summers of his boyhood, had been plowed under to build yet another automotive plant. Just last autumn it had been blown to cinders in a bombing raid. His childhood home, up the river, was now a crater – his parents killed while they slept. It was a freak bomb, theirs was the only place hit for kilometers around. Family friends were dragged off to God knows where. Not to mention the entire Jewish and Gypsy populations had been interred before vanishing all together.

And he had a fair idea of what had happened to them. There had been rumors.

He himself had been asked to participate in the removal of so-called 'undesirables' for the good of the State when he wasn't busy with normal surgical duties. Initially this meant sterilizations. Of alcoholics, depressives, and the idiots. Eventually though it became abundantly clear that euthanasia was the goal. Through diet adjustment, neglect. Lethal injection. All in a competitive and enlightened atmosphere. Who could develop the quickest, most economical way to eliminate? How many questionnaires could you complete in a day? Are you pioneering and industrious; will you fulfill your responsibility to the ignorant as an educated professional? You are a conserver of the hygiene of the people, a superior specimen, guardian of racial vitality. Our only barrier between prosperity and the demise of the fatherland.

Cooperation is quick promotion, grants for research, personal wealth. Job security.

And death is merciful to the incurable, after all. They are a burden, they want to die. To release the invalid is an act of humanity.

God damn the Party.

Klaus wrung the steering wheel as he passed yet another column of military personnel on their way to some violent reckoning.

It had never been okay. The first time he administered the injection. Children received it. Invalids and retards and epileptics. Then the decree of '39 had extended it to adults. "I Accuse" came out and suddenly euthanasia was a natural choice for the patriotic citizen. It was your duty to die when you became unproductive for the State.

And it was his duty to kill them. To enact the 'will of the people.' To protect their future.

But what did it mean? Was that what he was thinking the first time he slid that needle into wholly innocent flesh? It was his duty? She was so trusting, this poor thing. She could have been his own daughter, this chronically sick, sweet little girl. It was his job, for the good of everyone, to kill that girl. To dump that phenol into her veins. To give her a slow, painful death. She was a danger, you see. To everyone.

And those men, those women, whose only fault lay on the word of their neighbors? This man didn't cry loud enough at the rallies. He was 'feeble-minded.' His wife didn't wave the flag hard enough. She had a mental defect. They both didn't deserve to live in this new world. It was the price of progress after all.

In all he had killed thirty-four people. And it was murder. He was a murderer. God, it made him sick. He could see every single one of their faces, etched into his memory with crystalline precision. They came to him in his sleep. He had asked for a transfer out of there, he couldn't do it anymore.

So he came to Max in his ward. Things became different; it was a change in perspective. They were the doctors to the SS. They kept the supermen of the State healthy and vital. What he did there wasn't murder.

It was revenge.

Klaus was slowed considerably as he entered the inner Stuttgart. Traffic always was terrible this time of day. If it weren't for his fear of running into the Gestapo, he would get out and walk. It would have been quicker. But at least his car provided a degree of anonymity. Slowly, he wound through the ancient streets and stately buildings of the old town, passing green walkways and old monuments. All were talismans of civic pride and achievement, to the vigor and will of generations to subsist on this land.

People were hurrying about everywhere. Haggard, many stared at the ground in front of them, fearful of attracting any kind of attention whatsoever. Conspicuous activity overwhelmingly developed into nasty consequences.

After another turn the central station was finally in sight. Very recent in construction and more plain than the far older and ornate buildings surrounding it, it stood an enormously practical achievement to the modern era, that imposing tower dominating a nearby park and plaza.

Carefully, he pulled up in front of the station. It was over-crowded with people and police officers.

Klaus's heart started to hammer. This was far worse than he'd expected. It was foolish to come here.

He was also aware that idling there for too long would be a sure way to attract attention, as was the glaring absence of a jacket in the middle of winter. Pulling away he re-considered. It was early yet and the sky would only darken as the hour approached for departure. Driving further along, he turned down a broad avenue lined with some of the finer shops in the city. He parked and carefully checked for any sign of the Gestapo. Two officers stood idly down the street, talking and smoking.

Casually Klaus straightened his tie, got out of the car, locked it, and strode into a clothier. It was very warm inside, and smelt of wool and new leather.

"Good day." The shopkeeper, a youngish woman, greeted him before returning to her cleaning.

"Good day." He replied, heading to a long rack of overcoats near the back of the store. Hesitantly he glanced over his shoulder out the front window. No one had followed him. Pushing his glasses up Klaus started going through the selection. Most pieces were either too short or too broad for his frame. Eventually he came across something suitable, if not slightly oversized. The color at least, navy, would blend in. Taking the coat up front, he laid it on the counter.

"Will you be getting this fitted?" She asked disinterestedly.

"Er, no, that's alright." He replied.

She paused, looked dead at him, and raised an eyebrow.

"_Shit!" _Klaus's mind started racing. This was not good. Would she call the police? Was this the end? Dragged away and tortured to death for not tailoring a stupid coat?

After an unfathomable amount of time she said, "Sixty-two marks, please."

"Sixty-two marks?" He replied dubiously, pushing up his glasses.

Again the eyebrow raised.

"Alright." Klaus reluctantly pulled out his billfold, thumbing through it. Highway robbery.

"You'll be wearing this out I suppose." She remarked in a thoroughly bored and condescending tone after changing his money. Casually and ever so slowly she snipped the price tag off.

Klaus took the garment when she handed it to him and quickly put it on.

"Fits the shoulders fine but not the chest." Was the observation she made, lazily resting her chin on her hand.

Pulling the collar in close he cast an irritable glance her way. "Good day, madam." He said and headed out the door.

"Good day, sir." She replied with a smirk and wandered off to the back of the store.

Out in the street the light was fading fast. Fortified, Klaus drove back to the station for a second attempt, pulling out along curb. The crowd was densely packed now at the peak of rush-hour. The chances of him making it through looked far more reasonable than before. Still his palms sweated, slipping a little as he grabbed the door latch and stepped out. Calming his shaking nerves, he made his best attempt at nonchalantly locking the door and headed over to the short plaza before the terminal building. Slipping into the tight knot of people he stared at the ground with the rest of them, at the same time staying alert for law enforcement.

And there at the top of a short flight were three Gestapo officers in full regalia. With a kind of placid arrogance they surveyed the crowd. Looking for people exactly like Klaus. One rested his hand casually on his sidearm.

Klaus quickly looked away, feeling the blood rise in his temples. He would have to walk right past them. With a very slow and subtle movement he reached up, took off his glasses, and palmed them away into his pocket. They were a clearly identifying trait and he could see just well enough without them to make it into the building. Every second slowed to an hour as he went up those shallow steps, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He was prepared, any moment now, for someone to grab him. A barking voice. A gunshot. Anything reaching out from the blur of his peripherals to pull him into the abyss.

With a sudden rush of cool and metallic air he passed through the station's portal and into the tall echoing hall. Slipping his glasses back on, Klaus quickly checked for more police. There were a few scattered about, some near the vendors, but none looked too absorbed with the citizenry around them. He walked quickly, milling with the people towards the platforms at the end of the long entrance way. The atmosphere was extremely subdued and no idle conversations were made.

After a length of time he finally arrived to the open air platforms. Trains hissed noisily as people hurried to and from cars or sat waiting on benches.

Much to Klaus's dismay, the Gestapo were everywhere in small clusters among the mob, eyeing with a brutal authority the people shuffling before them.

"_My God_." He thought, continuing to move with a crowd which was quickly dispersing, people heading to their respective destinations. There was no way out, or on, or through. Quietly he made his way over to an information board, pretending to inspect the timetables and painfully aware of how exposed he was. The situation could not have been more hostile.

And then, with a deadly chill that struck his spine like freakish lightning, Klaus noticed an officer notice him. Trembling, he pulled his coat in a little tighter and crossed his arms, trying desperately not to look over there. The man stared at Klaus for a minute and then with a small nudge pointed him out to his companion.

"_Oh God. Fuck."_

The other officer looked at Klaus, and then reached into his jacket and pulled a paper out. Both consulted this for a while, occasionally looking back up at him while discussing something.

Klaus turned away a little, trying to hide his face the best he could while still seeing them. He was desperately attempting not to shake as a cold sweat started to bead on his forehead. His glasses needed adjusting. He wouldn't dare draw attention to them.

The two men, apparently satisfied, called their other companion. All three began to stride purposefully in his direction.

"_Dear Lord, this is it_." He thought, and started to walk casually in the opposite direction, away from the platforms towards a knot of people near the back entrance. He then quickened his pace.

"HALT!"

He heard the shout behind him, and that was all the excuse he needed. Klaus broke into a sprint, plowing through the mass of people churning into the station, as gunfire erupted behind him. There were screams and panic, and bodies scattering away. He was sure someone had gotten hit, but none of that mattered. Gulping down air and throwing a few more unfortunate souls aside he sped out into the open courtyard. It was fully dark now, but he could see the flash of uniforms beating through the crowds under the street lamps. More gunfire and he felt the space beside his face hiss, a man in front of him stumbled backwards, life exploding indifferently from his head. A woman screeched as he hurtled by, her sobs echoing madly as he threw himself across four lanes of traffic. Cars slammed to a stop as he bounded out of the way, heading down the still-crowded sidewalk, body wholly aware of the cracking boots chasing after him.

Sirens started to sound. Klaus knew he was absolutely doomed. There was no escape, those distant horns would scream closer – cold executioners pouring out, sneering faces ready to tear him to pieces.

Everyone around him started to run as well, scattering. He sprinted through this massive herd of people, trying to put as many bodies between him and his pursuers as possible.

Then, as muffled reports of gunfire echoed through his adrenaline-spiked mind, he realized. Those were no police sirens.

It was an air raid.

The mad droning started immediately from above. First a single plane, then dozens. The underside of their wings flashing wickedly in the light of the city below. People were wailing and panicking all around him, and Klaus kept desperately running with the pack. The Gestapo seemed to have broken off their pursuit to start yelling direction to the mass of souls stampeding each other. It was a boon. It was a blessing. He gasped for air and continued his flight. What terrible, hideous, wonderful luck this was.

Then, as in slow motion, a blinding flash of red appeared to his right in the street. A demonic tree spread its flaming arms out, washing the area in a hellish light. Several people in the immediate vicinity of the marker caught fire, their ghastly wails torturing the living as they flailed in futile agony.

A fresh wave of despair and horror ripped through those around him, a dazed few stopped and stared, all the while the bombers moaned overhead like phantasms. The feeble flak guns were powerless to touch them.

Klaus continued running with the others, knowing a shelter to be ahead somewhere near a plaza.

A hundred lights erupted at once, and he was suddenly witnessing hell screaming forth from a nightmare. Great shudders of fire rained down from above, bursting against buildings and splashing over creation in molten rivulets. Everything this plasma touched started to burn, turning buildings instantly into great infernos, turning people into living torches. Even the asphalt caught fire and smoldered with reckless fury.

Moments later the earth upended itself. Klaus didn't remember being thrown to the ground, rolling painfully on the burning concrete. But suddenly he was there, the whole of his body screaming in pain. Rubble, huge hands of masonry, flew everywhere and the air was choked with dust. He pulled himself up, feeling the earth tremble and pitch, and was thrown down again. Lost, blackness came for him.

He realized he was in a mass of humanity. Somehow he had made it to a shelter. In the dim light his vision cleared, and his ears adjusted. Immediately in front of him there was a man who was almost missing an arm, the failed appendage dangling on a strip of skin. It bled grotesquely. In the corner of the bunker there was a hand. Klaus vaguely thought it strange, that a hand-less person was not nearby. It was a left hand.

Somewhere a little girl's voice asked, "Mommy, are we dying yet?"

The whole world was shaking, and again the earth started to buck wildly. Everyone was thrown from their feet, against the walls, and each other. The man's arm finally separated, his wailing attested this. The corners of the bunker started to split and lift open, that hellish plasma dribbling in and radiating intensely. Poisonous fumes poured along with the fire-droplets, strangling the refugees. Every breathe Klaus took burned with intense heat, as if his lungs would combust in an instant. He reached up the wall to stand, and to his horror felt the concrete scorch and pull his flesh away.

He howled in the madness, stepping over and shoving writhing bodies desperately for the exit of this crematorium. Hands grasped and pulled at him in deadly competition for the fresh air of the living world as the tomb everywhere began to glow.

Klaus managed a last and frantic effort to shoulder his way above ground and stood for a moment with an irrational, animal triumph amidst the dazzling and blazing chaos. Indifferently oblivion then came once more and washed him senseless.


	4. Chapter 4

When Klaus regained consciousness he immediately lapsed into confoundment, a strange numbness washing over his senses. What he saw defied all human understanding, and with a bizarre detachment he lay there amongst the rubble and ruin.

The few other panicked women and men surviving the bomb shelter fled out into the street. Almost immediately they became stuck in the inferno-melted asphalt, their shoes catching fire. In a desperate attempt to be freed many reached down to push against the igneous pitch. With screams of shock and terror they were affixed, hands and knees, to the ground. They cried in twisted agony as slowly their flesh roasted. The three still standing watched in impotent visceral fright as uselessly they tried to get free, their clothes igniting and the fires traveling slowly up their legs. One, seeing Klaus conscious, pleaded for help with an unintelligible and guttural language as he was consumed.

And that little girl with her mother, burning on all fours, was the first to die.

Over the roar of flames Klaus could hear their skin sizzle and pop, and could smell that wretched stench so particular to the human torch. His head swam and he lay back, haunted by their wailing. Overcome he turned over and was sick, bile steaming in the unreal heat the moment it came to the sidewalk. Still retching, Klaus struggled to his feet. All around the fires burned, climbing the carcasses of buildings and sending hellish red columns of smoke into the inky night. Everything was awash in that sick and demonic light.

Panting he tore off his coat and shirt, the latter painfully ripping apart a wound on his back where the fabric had become attached. The blood dried instantly on his skin, and his hands split open. He was no longer sweating, all moisture being sucked from his body by the firestorm, leaving a trail of rime on his brow. Klaus stumbled away from the more intense fires, leaving those dying behind, looking for an opening out and feeling the soles of his shoes sticking to the pavement. Blasts of hot air rushed past him and he found himself fighting a strong wind – arm thrown up to shield his burning eyes.

In the agony of time, each step a monumental achievement, Klaus finally saw a break out of the fire and debris. Deliriously he headed for it with dogged steps, pushing through the scalding pain and caustic headwind while climbing over the gutted remains of a toppled building. The flesh on his hands singed away with every effort over the heap and once atop the apex he slipped and rolled down to the other side among the twisted and blackened rebar. He lay there for a moment exhausted; the air was cooler away from the worst of the blaze. After a while he got up and tried to orient himself. Klaus recognized the open area as some kind of plaza, but which one it was impossible to tell. Most of the buildings around were burning away, and those that weren't had been completely demolished. The land was no longer flat, but cratered deeply and littered with bodies both charred and blown apart. The earth continued to shudder and shake as elsewhere in the city bombs were being laid, explosions mixed with the incessant droning shattering through the dull roar of ubiquitous fires.

Miraculously, there were others still alive. A small group of distant people were picking their way hurriedly through the ruins. Klaus made his way to them, climbing a small wall of exposed rebar past an impaled man. Dropping down, he hailed the other survivors. One woman among them looked briefly, but continued to shuffle along. Klaus made his best to run and catch up, limping on his left leg and starting to notice how incredibly sore he was. Covered in burns, some greater than others, the exposed skin on his back was tight and tearing open with every movement. In agony, he had to slow down. Closer now, he hailed them again.

They moved on entirely indifferent, as if they hadn't heard him. Then, just when he was going to give up, the woman stopped and called for her comrades to do the same. There was a small altercation between her and another man, and then she started to make her way over to Klaus, the rest waiting behind.

"Hello." She called to him, an older woman whose hair was graying, or perhaps covered in ash.

"Hello." Klaus responded, limping up.

"We are going to the river," she said "You should come with us." The men behind her, four of them, were impatient and agitated. One had an injury to his stomach and was holding it. Another was covered in severe burns along his arms. All looked drawn and beaten.

Klaus was not much different. "Where are we?" He asked, walking with the woman.

"The market square." She replied, moving around several charred corpses to join the other men.

The market square? Klaus looked around in disbelief. It couldn't be. He had been there a thousand times throughout his life and nothing here represented what he knew. Nothing was in the right proportion, the buildings were heaps of rubble, and there no trace of the many stalls that used to fill this space.

And then, with a sinking and vague horror, he recognized the skeleton of the Collegiate Church, shrouded in smoke and smoldering down the way. Klaus paused, and viewed the square again. In the strange glow of the surrounding fires, he then realized the cinders he had been walking through were the remains those stalls, those piles of stone carcasses of the grand old buildings, both now wholly consumed in the destruction. It was a terrible thing.

Klaus stood there in a penultimate, perplexed state. What purpose could there possibly have been in bombing the market place? Strategic importance? Valuable assets? Military presence?

"We need to go!" the burned man said impatiently and started moving off with the others.

With a nagging reluctance and a new surge of pain, Klaus continued, somewhat behind the men and woman. His thoughts kept straying, grasping at the reason for all of this terror and suffering. For those people – a wave of nausea came – for that girl in the asphalt. For the corpses they were continually stepping over, for the pink mist coating the stones, for the scattered and unrecognizable body parts that they stumbled on. The dead were everywhere. None of them were soldiers. In his hazy mind, he could not fathom what it all was possibly for.

The small party labored on, flecks of ash dancing and swirling around them like tainted cottonwood. On several occasions, they would hear a plane come closer and would flinch instinctively, looking for some kind of shelter. They were not accosted and most of the blasts remained distant, but for the occasional calving of a building. After a few blocks the structures became less ruinous and the fires less intense, the temperature cooled and gradually they could make out the sounds of other people and sirens amidst the general chaos.

Ahead the arterial route came into view along with a veritable river of people walking along the broad street in various degrees of infirmity, picking past the cars like so many ants. They moved without life and direction, in quiet desperation within the eerie orange light. The severely injured lay along the grassy median as understaffed rescue workers attempted to assist them. Klaus could see that many were beyond aid, but with a rising sense of purpose, he knew what he must do.

"Thank you for your help." He called to the woman as their small group departed to join the stream of refugees. Without a glance they continued on and quickly disappeared.

Nearby a first aider was desperately trying to seal a chest wound, his hands slipping in the blood and the bandages shifting uselessly under suction. With all the autonomy of a machine Klaus, filthy, thirsty, burned, shirtless, and exhausted, made his way to the man.

"Can I be of assistance?" He said, "I am a trauma surgeon."

Under the man, with a subtle and final jerk, the patient ceased to struggle and was dead. He sat there winded, hands still pressing on the soaked gauze. Eventually, he leaned back on his haunches and looked up at Klaus, squinting in bewilderment while wiping his brow. All around the injured moaned in their delirium. "Then you were sent by God." He said and shakily stood. "Over there-" He pointed. "There is a truck with supplies, though we don't have much." With a wary glance he assessed Klaus, and apparently satisfied said indifferently, "We'll take any help you can spare."

As the rescuer moved on to another victim, Klaus started to jog to the covered truck, putting aside his pain and sizing up those laid out along the road. Most were in wretched condition, and he started to make a tally of the ones who could be saved. Pushing through the constant tide of refugees, he came to the back of the truck and peered past the canvas tarp.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who the fuck are you?" The worker in the truck yelled belligerently, "Keep moving, we don't have anything here for you to use."

"I am a surgeon." Klaus called back forcefully, "I need whatever supplies you have."

"Yeah?" The man came to the tailgate aggressively, squatting over the crates. He was large, brutish, and tired-looking. "Well you don't look like a fucking surgeon. Now piss off!"

With a wrench Klaus grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him down to eye level. Snarling, he said, "I am a surgeon and if you don't give me what I need you'll be the first I open up!"

The man kneeled there, glowering at Klaus. He was unshaven and reeked of alcohol and antiseptics. With an angry grunt the man pushed himself away, rubbing absently around his neck. "Alright, Doctor, if you insist. It doesn't matter any way to me." He moved back amid the supplies. "We're all fucked, morphine or no."

Klaus stood at the end of the truck, trembling slightly behind the man's back. Where on earth had that come from? He had found himself fighting an obscene amount of rage, all quite suddenly. It had a frightening quality to it, an intensity that hinted nebulously of disaster.

Oh how he just wanted to get to work.

The man came back holding a small satchel and tossed it to Klaus, "Here, this is all I'm giving you. Come back when you save a few lives."

Klaus caught the bag and moved off back among the crowd, glad to be rid of the man. He hurriedly inspected the supplies.

"_Bastard_."

Just morphine and a few trauma bandages. Not even plasma or serum albumin. What there was hardly could cover five patients, maybe six depending on severity. But it would have to do for now. Making it back to the median he again surveyed the injured. Many, if not most, were amputees that had lost so much blood they would soon be gone. Quickly he assessed an order of priority and got to work, first focusing on stabilizing a woman with some kind of impalement. The object had been removed and she was bleeding excessively.

Klaus rapidly settled down into an old, methodical routine. He was agile, precise, and despite his burns had a gentle touch that tended to calm those struggling in their confusion. The labor was soothing and soon he fell into a kind of cathartic state, relieved to be doing something he understood fully. Within twenty minutes he had gotten a few patients stable and had relaxed considerably. Despite the best he could do, most of the people would need more advanced attention. How they would get it, he had not a clue. Heading back to the supply truck Klaus cut in front of a few other aid workers and called, "Friend, I need some more bandages." His tone had the slightest hint of levity.

The man, recognizing Klaus's voice, came stomping back to the opening. His sneer faltered only for a beat when he saw the other man, who now had a thick coating of blood up his arms. "The fuck. You're not supposed to roll in it." He said sardonically, catching the supply bag and throwing it away into the truck. "Jesus Christ." He disappeared for a moment and returned, tossing a fuller kit to Klaus and smirking. "Here Doc, you sick bastard; just stay the fuck away from here, you're scaring the clientele."

Klaus caught the heavy satchel, avoiding the hand he had injured on the bunker wall, and gave the other man a nod before jogging off again. This time he was given a full detail, and he quickly set about making use of it. There were so many wounded on the street, row after row and growing as more were dragged in from the surrounding blocks. He could almost forget about what had happened, with all the work that needed doing.

Down the avenue though, there was a commotion. It trembled through the stream of people like a shockwave, and cries could be heard in the distance. Then with frightening solidity, the steady roar of aircraft engines erupted, low and fast approaching. Klaus looked up with dismay to see, through the smoke, a fighter plane come hurtling in over the broad street, its guns bursting with a devilish cacophony. It was a symphony of chaos as a whole swath of people – men, women, and children – were cut down in the hail of bullets. Viscera, limbs, and great chunks of pavement flew everywhere and the crowd began to run in a primeval stampede. With a frustrated yell Klaus got caught up with them, just barely keeping hold of the supply bag, and was shoved along with the great mass, doing his best not to stumble over those being crushed underfoot. Two, three planes rushed by, strafing people as they ran and sending up a great red mist before pulling off into the night. Eventually, Klaus was able to break away from the main body off to the side of the street. He leaned up against a wall, panting. There was no fight left in him, no energy remained to panic or run or cry. He was entirely drained, completely parched, and if he was meant to die here, he would.

He was so glad Monika was gone. She was far too beautiful for something like this.

Another plane went barreling past, sending more people straight to hell. There were screams of shock, and wails of agony. Limbless, headless, corpses lay on pavement slickened by their insides as more and more of the crowd streamed by.

Feeling a little stiff, and a little numb, Klaus began limping in the general direction the crowd was taking – well off to the side near the buildings lining the avenue. They were all heading towards the Neckar, which made an odd kind of sense. Perhaps the waterfront would be safer if the firebombers came back. It also seemed perfectly plausible that this was a false logic. The river did lead out of the city though, and would hopefully prevent the geographic disorientation he had experienced before. There were elderly and children and injured straggling along with him amid the rushing people with all their shouting. Another plane went streaking by, guns blazing and tearing through the earth near him. Klaus flattened against a wall as a small shower of rocks and flesh pelted his back.

"_Oh thank God she isn't here_."

After a moment he straighten himself up, feeling the wound on his back tear open and seep again. He continued past the human carnage, past a man who was missing most of his hand, another with a sucking chest wound, yet another child filled with bullet holes, all looking on in shock.

A few first aiders came to help, but there was no point in doing it while the planes kept roaring past. For every one they saved ten more would die, sometimes the rescuers falling as another trail of bullets swept the ground. It was so ridiculous.

The man in the truck had been right. They were all fucked, morphine or no. Dead already.

Klaus continued walking, noting indifferently the score on his back. It most certainly would become infected. He gave a taught chuckle. He didn't have to worry much about that at the moment. Why treat a wound when you'll be blown apart on the next few blocks? Ah yes. Death was indeed everywhere.

As if to confirm this thought, the low drone of bombers could be heard approaching again. This time there were no sirens or markers. Just that steady sound, far too near, with the promise of perdition. Feeling a dull kind of fear, Klaus started to run, dodging other people and shoving some aside. His sense of urgency was met equally by anger. The idea of being sent back into the inferno when so close to the Neckar was indefensible; the thought of burning to death driving him out of his dour indifference. He managed a sprint, feeling the titanic rumble of distant bombs through the pavement and air pressure start to change. Above, through the smoking pyres, the lead plane came into tyrannic view. It seemed to hang there, steady in the night, far above the waves of humanity. Klaus watched it, for a moment, trying for more speed. In a kind of lumbering and careless way, the plane released its payload of incendiaries, which fell with sadistic precision on to the street well in front of him, immolating everything they touched.

Two blocks from the Neckar hell broke out and smothered the pavement, the cars, the buildings, the trees, the people with fire. Klaus stopped, unable to continue ahead. Much of the crowd before him, not in the conflagration yet far too close, burst into flames from the intensity of the heat. The sick plasma rolled about and splashed recklessly, gnawing and leaching away. A breeze was lifted as air started to spiral into the devastation.

Turning off the main road, Klaus headed down side streets, trying to make it past the bombsite to the river. With buildings so close in here and already burning, he knew that this decision could quickly turn to disaster. Nevertheless he pounded on, scrambling over piles of stone and through deep craters. Ignoring the searing pain in his leg, back, and hands, he climbed over fallen walls and cut himself on rebar and glass. He was so close now. Lungs burning he could hear other people, there must be thousands, crying in terror on the waterfront street.

The trembling of the earth grew more intense, and the roar of planes rushed overhead. Klaus rounded a corner sharply and smashed into a throng of people. The river lay across the road, past the densely packed mass. With a cacophony the world erupted, and Klaus was thrown off his feet upon the writhing pile of bodies. In a great cataclysm buildings were blown apart, sending huge chunks of debris into the air, braining and crushing where they fell. He managed to regain his feet, almost shoved over by someone else before being thrown down again in a second explosion. Klaus began to crawl towards the direction of the river he seemed to remember, ears ringing and vision greyed. He moved over bodies, many living, many dead, crawling over the glass and stones, through the blood. Another explosion forced his head down.

He swam in the blackness, reeling before he regained his senses and continued his fight to the water. So close now, his mind could perceive that open space. Reaching out, his hand felt where the steps below to the walk began. With an effort, he shoved himself over to top and shielding his head rolled down the flight to the bottom. The world bucked and quaked and grew hazy with another explosion. Something warm and wet fell onto his back, it was painfully solid. Ignoring this, Klaus tenuously saw the iron fence separating him from the river. He rolled onto his feet as fire bombs started to loose torrents of molten rain all over the street above him, the droplets falling around and igniting the living and dead. Disregarding everything with magnetic conviction, Klaus stumbled over. The railing radiated heat, but without looking back Klaus secured the supply bag about his shoulders, grasped his glasses in his blistered hand, and hoisted himself over the hot metal. With all the certainty of a suicide, he thrust out off the ledge and plunged down into the river below.


	5. Chapter 5

Klaus fought a gasp as he crashed into the icy water, dissolving into the darkness beneath the surface. He hung there in a moment of shock, frigid temperatures searing his naked torso, his limbs suddenly sluggish in the cold. In that small eternity, there was a strange moment of peace, the fires extinguished, bomb-blasts muted, panic gone, and the screams of people forgotten. He hung there in the quiet, thinking of a steady sigh, before giving a reluctant kick and returning to the world.

The violent sounds of murder and chaos greeted his ears the moment he broke the surface, washing all around and ringing like blind torment. Treading water Klaus rubbed down his eyes and put on his glasses, pushing away a corpse as it rolled into him. He was in the dark void near the wall of the dike and completely absorbed in shadow. Above on the rail, people could be seen illuminated by the fires behind them as they jumped down before disappearing into the blackness. The inevitable splash could be heard, and many were flailing and crying and drowning, unable to swim. Almost directly above him, a man on fire came to the railing. Klaus watched as he struggled, howling, over the hot iron and then fell like a flare. With a small horror, the light of his burning body revealed a thousand others, living and dead, floating near the wall. Splashing down, the man was extinguished. Klaus felt the ripple of his body surfacing, no longer alive.

Blasts continued to tear apart the city above as planes roared overhead, sending flaming debris into the ebbing crowd. All around they fought for life, sobbing and kicking up water. Klaus turned to the opposite shore, which burned away in its own inferno, plumes of smoke towering into the sky. Pushing through the sodden corpses, he started a slow stroke towards the center of the river, seeking where the current was strongest. The frigid temperature sapped him and pained his already exhausted muscles.

He pushed on though, the thought of being able to rest and let the water carry him out of the city relieving. In his path, there was a man splashing and floundering in his panic. Klaus, swimming past a severed arm, attempted to circumvent the unfortunate person. He was too late though and spotting him the drowning victim latched on to Klaus's shoulder and started to struggle up over him.

The weight pushed his head underwater and he felt with searing pain as the other man's feet tore open yet again the gash on his back. Grappling, Klaus managed to twist around and push at the man's torso, freeing himself just long enough to surface with a gasp for air before he was shoved down again in the other's panic. With a tremor of deadly intent two large hands grasped around his neck and held him there. Klaus, a raw fear rising, tried in vain to pull the vice apart as repeatedly he was kicked in the stomach by the other man as he attempted to tread water. Reaching up, lungs starting to burn, Klaus locked his own hands around his assailant's throat and with a rapid thrust pulled up and rolled over the top of him. In an instant their positions were reversed and Klaus, temples pounding and teeth gritted, forced the violently struggling man beneath him, holding him there with a vague sense of purpose. The surface eventually started to gurgle away and the hands around his neck loosened, clawing about wildly, then sluggishly, then were still, slipping back into the water. Panting, Klaus let go and kicked away from the body, rubbing his throat and burying the numb horror nagging at the edge of his perception. All around there were others who continued screaming and splashing, jumping and burning, fighting, and drowning. With waning resolve he continued his slow progress to the center of the river, watching as a pluming explosion erupted on the opposite bank, the fire reflecting eerily in the open water.

Out of the ebb and away from the mass of bodies he felt the current pick up and start to carry him more quickly downstream. With relief Klaus rolled over onto his back and allowed the cold water to take him away, steering gently towards the center of the waterway through horrid debris. He was so tired, every last centimeter of his body was drained and deeply sore. But the frigid river, for all its numbing quality, soothed his burned hands and arms and enveloped him gently in its seductive embrace. He suddenly found himself to be very drowsy, pulled along with no destination in mind, lost amidst a muted aquatic dream.

Klaus sighed in a halted, heat conserving manner, listening to his breaths and feeling a blast of hot air from a burning bridge as he passed beneath it. The human candles, muted now, continued to extinguish themselves in the black void, never to surface again in his life. He watched them, without emotion, without pain or thought. Like an observer severed from reality, their terrible final images leaving no impression, nothing to register in his memory.

The whole day was beyond comprehension and he simply couldn't recall how he came to be drifting there, along with planking and bodies, the blood and filth and oil, cold and growing colder under a winter sky from hell. The thought of Monika, her face, the smell of her hair, quietly came to him like a slipping hourglass, a watercolor wetted and bleeding. He tried in vain to hold onto it, but his perception was weak and faded and that sole comfort slid away as quickly as it came, just out of reach. Klaus felt the dull quake of shivers start to take over his body, unable to suppress them anymore. Above, past the pooling reddish smoke the stars continued prick coldly through the black and desolate sky. He closed his eyes and surrendered to his blurred thoughts and shaking body, feeling heavy and yet unburdened in his own hazy no man's land. It felt like peace. It felt like rest. Finally, rest.

After an indeterminate amount of time a sudden urge to cry came to Klaus with piercing clarity, a need sprung from somewhere beyond his sensation. Without sadness or joy, without a mind he wept quietly while passing slowly along in the darkness, burning sensation in his extremities giving away to satisfying warmth, the violent shivering losing intensity before stopping all together. Utterly calm and vacant he slipped beyond time and thought.

(X)

With a strange dragging sensation tendrils of awareness began to return to Klaus. There was the hollow sound of empty air, creeping pain, the feeling of unevenness. He gradually began to sense that he was somewhere – that there was space beyond him. He slowly realized he was laying down. Something was clinging to and pulling at his chest, there were sounds of large pebbles being shifted about. With a rush he then remembered the water, then the fire, and finally the darkness. Klaus slowly tried opening his blinded eyes, groping with a dead hand to reconcile that tugging and moving of his body, searching for the offending supply bag.

"Oh!" a voice called out in appreciative surprise. "Hey! I thought you said he was dead!"

"What?" There were rough, glassy sounding footsteps.

"This guy's alive!"

Klaus squinted, the brilliant world slowly coming into focus and simultaneously erupting with all manners of pain as feeling returned to his body. He was laying on some an assortment of rocks and could hear the water not distant. He could feel his pants still drenched, though his torso was dry.

"Yeah?"

In the pale morning light Klaus saw two young lads were standing over him, probably teenagers, in military uniform. One was smoking a cigarette and both were staring back with apprehension, their breaths fogging in the cold.

"So what do we do?" The one with the cigarette asked his companion.

"Well, dead or no we need that kit." The other said as he kneeled and started horsing around with the shoulder strap.

With parched cry as the fabric dug into his wounded back Klaus clumsily swatted at the youth, causing the boy to jerk back in alarm. "No." He said with a cough, finally managing to find his voice past his dry throat, body starting to shiver again. "You cannot have this." The pain was tremendous and Klaus found himself short of breath, head swimming.

"But – "The boy started to protest back.

Klaus held up his hand for silence, bidding them both to wait. After a few gasps of air the agony lessened a bit and he continued, "I am a doctor." Again Klaus paused in pain, trying to arch his back to reduce tension on the strap. Finally, he went on. "Whatever you need these supplies for I will help you with, but first you must assist me."

"Oh!" The boy with the cigarette said, looking relieved. "That's much better plan!"

The other boy too looked grateful and knelt down next to Klaus as the latter held out his numb hand to be pulled up.

He got to the sitting position and waited there, taking the supply bag off of his shoulders.

"You were in the bombing?" the one with the cigarette asked after taking a drag.

Klaus didn't answer, shivering and focusing on the feeling in his cold legs, or lack thereof. He could move his toes though, so they couldn't be entirely frozen.

"Idiot! Of course he was there." The other boy said, taking off his coat and giving it to Klaus. "Why else would you pull someone from the fucking river?"

"Well, I was just saying."

"Then do us a favor and don't say."

"Please." Klaus said, interrupting them while gingerly shouldering the coat on. "Would one of you take my shoes off for me? I can't quite move my hands or legs well enough yet."

Flicking his cigarette away the boy knelt and started untying the laces. "Man, these things are ruined." He remarked as he slid one shoe off and started on the other. "My name is Paul Ensslin, by the way. And he's Manfred Morik." He slid off the last shoe, "What's your name?"

Klaus pulled his leg up by the knee and peeled a sock off, feeling the flesh on his foot with a few of the less numb fingers. "It's not important." he said absently after a while. A bit of the heel and the tips of the toes were frozen solid. It would be hell to thaw them out again, but the rest of the foot wasn't bad – just very cold. Picking his other leg up Klaus felt the opposite foot. It was in similar condition.

He then turned over his right hand to inspect it, the terrible memory of the bunker rushing back through his head and gone again like a whirlwind. The pads of his palm and fingers had third degree burns lined with blisters, which explained the relative lack of pain in the area given what had happened. Of most concern was his wedding band. The gold had become deformed and tightened around the skin. Not a problem now with the finger constricted from poor circulation, but the ring would need to be cut off soon.

"Okay." Klaus said while tightening the coat around him, "I think I'm ready to walk now."

"Don't you want your shoes back on?" Paul asked, picking them up.

"No, I'll manage without them. My feet need to dry out." Klaus replied with a grunt as Manfred took his arm and pulled him up. Klaus leaned heavily on the youth, trying out his legs and avoiding putting weight on the frozen skin. With the boy's help he was able to manage a quick hobble through the smooth sucking rocks of the riverbank. Looking around he could see he wasn't all that far from the city whose smoking ruins sent drifting plumes out in the early morning light. Sirens of emergency vehicles could finally be heard, faintly drifting to them like mourning ghosts. All along in the grey stones of the shore there were bodies half in, half out of the water, the lapping current tugging at them in a facsimile of life.

"We're flak assistants." Manfred said as they reached the stairs to the dyke, helping Klaus up the frigid concrete steps. "One of our comrades was hit during a strafing run and is in a bad way, but all of the medics went off to the city–"

"Probably getting blown up by secondary bombs." Paul cut in, swinging the supply pack idly as he walked ahead of them.

"Do you ever shut the fuck up?"

"Do you ever stop being an asshole?"

"Please." Klaus interrupted, "Tell me about your comrade."

"Anyway," Manfred continued, "There wasn't a whole lot we could do without any supplies. We came to the shore to see if there were survivors washing up, and then we see you here with that medical kit."

"What are his injuries?"

"He's messed up." Paul said, "His leg is mangled with bullets."

Manfred glared at his companion before continuing, "He was shot in the thigh and was bleeding a lot. We bandaged him with some cloth."

"Was it gushing blood?"

Manfred paused. "No. I don't think so. But we're not very far now, you'll see for yourself."

They passed through a small alley between houses and turned onto the main road by the river. It was still very early but there were already people about in the normally quiet suburb, some wandering aimlessly, some talking with their neighbors or clearing debris from the occasional damaged house. There was a younger woman walking down the road carrying an undetonated bomb in a cooking pot. Where she was going with it Klaus couldn't possibly imagine.

Turning a corner they came to the anti-aircraft battery, which was not much more than a couple eighty-eight millimeter guns and an ammunition bunker, both located on the river to give the clearest possible range over Stuttgart. Near the bunker some boys were sitting around an oil drum fire; lying prone up on crates and draped with a blanket was, Klaus assumed, the patient. Everywhere the earth was upturned from the attacks, great ruts in the pavement and dirt from the enemy bullets.

"Who've you got there, Morik?" One of the older boys asked as they approached.

"We fished a doctor out of the river, supply bag and all." Paul said, tossing the bag to his comrade and placing Klaus's shoes and socks by the fire.

"Was I asking you commander dumbass?" The boy sneered, rummaging through the sack.

"Hey, that's Mr. commander dumbass, fucktard."

"He's here to help Schauble," Manfred said, leading Klaus over to the sweating figure on the crates and carefully lifting up the blanket to expose his leg. "Do you think there's anything you can do?" He asked quietly after Klaus leaned over to examine the injury.

He could tell immediately from the boy's pallor, cyanosis, and the drenched rag tied around his thigh that the situation wasn't favorable. He checked his pupils, a feathering pulse, and then gently unwrapped the bandage. A fresh pool of blood lay in the cavity amid a mat of clots.

"Well," Klaus said, covering the wound and checking the boy's tags before taking his supply bag back, "He is in shock from the blood loss and if he does not get a transfusion immediately he will die. " He rummaged around the sack to see if there was anything still usable.

Both Manfred and the older boy looked crestfallen, watching their comrade mumble deliriously beneath his blanket. "Can you do that? Get him a transfusion?" Manfred asked.

It was out of the question. Klaus had not the tools necessary to carry out the procedure safely, let alone any whole blood on hand. Sure, the tins of plasma looked like they'd survived their journey downriver – but the side effects of such a process were legion and he couldn't even accurately monitor the patient's health let alone treat him if – no, when – complications arose. Locating the pair of field scissors, Klaus held the blades in the fire for a crude sterilization. The boy was going to die if he didn't intervene, and would probably die anyway if he did.

But pulling off a transfusion out here.

That would be something else.

And if the boy started to have a reaction, well. It'd be over anyway. He could just put him down with a shot of morphine. What was there to lose? Klaus looked at the uniformed lads standing around. They all had been tagged in the standard military fashion, he was sure there were at least a few donors among them. Fresh whole blood, already body temperature. Disease free? There was no way to tell. Rh? Did it really matter at this point? Platelet count? PH? The kid was going to die. No sterile apparatus to do the transfusion, or collect the blood in, no way to know of an unbalanced condition until it was too late. It was complete madness.

But it might be fun to try. After all, what was one more body on the mountain?

Klaus directed a boy to hold the scissors for him and dug out the plasma, opening the sealed tin case. Inside there were two bottles of the yellow powder and a third larger one containing water. "There is a chance we can do a transfusion right here." He said, addressing Manfred and the older boy. "If I can get blood from a few of you we might be able to save him."

"We would do anything to help our comrade," Manfred replied, "Just tell us what to do."

With what he hoped was a reassuring smile Klaus replied, "Look on your tags for blood group four, those will be the donors. Have them eat something and then come see me. And get some more blankets."

Manfred saluted him and ran off to call together the group of flak assistants. It was all so wrong on so many levels. There was only one marginally clean needle and syringe to share among them and no way to test their blood for defects. But were infectious diseases really all that bad compared to, say, a burning death?

Klaus opened the plasma bottles and poured some of the water in, mixing them with the end of the scissors until the right consistency appeared. Going back over to the patient, he started the IV, having one boy hold the plasma for him. He then around the wound he cut the pants away, blotted some antiseptic solution near the opening, made a makeshift splint to keep the leg stationary, but otherwise did not touch the coagulating mass. It was a futile gesture if anything, like cleaning a pigsty.

A little while later Manfred returned with the blankets and three of his comrades, the group four donors. Among them was Paul, and if any were feeling apprehensive they did not show it. Bright faced, if not a bit sallow from the night's exertion, in the still pale light they stood very young and very oblivious about what was going on.

Paul laughed, pointing to Klaus's feet, "You know, I think Schauble is your shoe size. If you kill him you should take his boots because, man, the ones you came with are no good." He elbowed the donor next to him, "Did you see his shoes, Egeler? Sole's almost melted completely off. Couldn't fucking believe it."

Up to this point, Klaus had been walking about barefoot in the winter morning as an attempt to keep the frozen parts of his feet from thawing. However both his movements and the rising ambient temperature were taking their toll; a dull throbbing had started to pick up in the chilled flesh. It wasn't going to be long before he was completely incapacitated by the process. Regardless, he carried on. A toss and the remaining water from the plasma kit was dumped out, an IV line rigged into place. With a mindless ease Klaus pinched the brachial artery of his first donor, Egeler, and selected a vein. Soon blood was dripping rapidly into the jar, pooling and bright with oxygen. "Morik," He asked, having the donor sit on a crate, "Would you happen to have any wire cutters?"

"Yes, we do." He replied, "Do you need them?"

"Please."

Egeler paled, causing Paul to erupt in laughter.

"No, they're not for you." Klaus clarified, grunting in discomfort as he attempted to loose his marital band from where the flesh had bonded to it. What a mess. He needed to take the time to actually clean his wounds and bandage them properly, and treat his back, and eat, and rest. And that in and of itself was a problem. Sure he was out in the suburbs and the State apparatus was a little preoccupied with the crisis in the city for a moment, but give them twenty-four hours and he'd be a fugitive again. Somewhere safe would have to be found to hole up and take care of himself before he continued on. At least for a day. And then?

There was no point in even thinking about it until he got his feet thawed. The throbbing sensation had grown worse, now accompanied by that deep burning cold flesh gets from being warmed too quickly. Klaus frowned. He would have to just put up with it. A shot of morphine might be nice, but he needed to conserve the stuff for God knows what lay on the road ahead. Not to mention he was still taking care of this child and that required all the mental clarity he possessed at the moment.

"I have your wire cutters." Manfred said as he walked up, handing them to Klaus.

"Thank you." He replied, wasting no time in slipping a snubbed metal pinscher past a few blisters and under the gold. With a little jerking around, and a little pain, he started to work through the soft metal and soon the band was severed. Prying it open with the cutters, he inspected the branded skin beneath. Not too bad, all things considered.

"Where is she?" Paul asked, eliciting a sharp punch in the shoulder from Manfred.

"Do you have any fucking manners?"

"Manners? Look at us! I got fucking yanked out of school to go shoot people. Since when do I need manners for that?"

Ignoring them, Klaus slipped the ring into his pocket and hobbled over a ways to check on Schauble. Under the bandage blood had continued to coagulate, which was very good, and his pulse had gotten stronger. It looked like the shock hadn't been able to compound on itself yet. Taking the extra blankets he secured them around the boy before checking on the IV. No rash either. The first bottle of plasma was nearly drained, and he'd soon be able to start the second. This was better than he could have hoped for, having initially come into the situation. It was obvious at this point the child had been unbelievably lucky in the shot placement, somehow the bullet must missed most of the vital blood vessels. Maybe not as much replacement would be necessary, but he couldn't be entirely certain, of a lot of things.

Limping back to Egeler, who had generously donated just under half the bottle, Klaus removed the needle and syringe. "Go eat some more and rest." He waved the boy off and motioned for Paul to come sit down.

"I guess I believe you're a doctor now," Paul said, holding out his arm as Klaus went to work, "I had my doubts, you know. But none of our other medics did this stuff. With the blood."

Klaus had trouble suppressing an ironic smile. No one should be doing what he was doing. No one with any kind of sense of medical –

Ethics. He looked over at the boy, laying there in shock underneath a few blankets. He was about to kill that child through gross negligence. That was the truth. The chances of him surviving the amount and rate he was going to pump essentially unknown blood in an unsterile environment like this were minimal. An infection would most certainly develop from any number of the transmission sources, if he had an immune response there was no way Klaus could stop it other than cut the transfusion wholesale, and if the boy had developed an imbalance because of the massive influx he wouldn't be able to tell until it was too late.

But this wouldn't have necessarily been the first time he'd killed someone, now would it? At least this wasn't intentional, was it? What exactly was he meaning to do, exposing all these kids to blood-borne illness? So many people had died anyway, though. These kids were just more casualties of war. After what he'd seen yesterday, whether they were bombed or burned or drowned or shot or died in treatment didn't make all that much of a difference. The outcome was always the same. The outcome would always be the same.

The throbbing in Klaus's feet started to develop into a bone-breaking hammering, the burning sensation transitioning into a searing pain. Sitting down next to Paul and keeping an eye on the patient, he watched the blood slowly drip into the bottle. On the slight chance the kid would survive the initial transfusion and the infections didn't kill him later, he'd probably just get shot again or face some other grisly demise. Who knew what state his leg was in, the femur most likely broken. The boy wouldn't be able to walk again for a while.

But if the transfusion worked without killing, it would be some small kind of success. A success he might be able to apply to later situations. So maybe there some kind of good in it. The only alternative, after all, was death from the shock. Klaus sighed, picking absently at his thawing toes.

A strange agitation gnawed at him. Something was still wrong with this, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it. Like some hungry beast he felt drawn to the situation. Arbitrarily making these decisions, knowing perfectly well there was an alternative but choosing to ignore it and continue. He could have just helped transport the boy after giving him plasma; get him to a field station where they have adequate supplies and could carry out the procedure safely. He condition wasn't that unstable, he could have survived the trip. His comrades would have appreciated it, and child's hope of survival would be far greater. But like a dog Klaus avoided that solution, fixated on his own unknown agenda, gravitated by some deep and weird impulse.

And just like that a dark truth shot through his head, the words forming and simultaneously shattering any hope of moral reconciliation.

"_This isn't medicine at all. It's experimentation._"

He looked up at the severe February sky, cold air warming gently under the bright sunlight. He didn't know whether or not to be horrified, disgusted, angry, or guilty with himself. On his own accord he was doing this. Without realization he was doing this. Without any kind of justification whatsoever he was doing this. But he didn't know what to feel or what to think.

He didn't really feel anything.

Blood continued to dripping into the glass bottle, smearing the walls and falling onto the darkening liquid below, tracing out bright spots on the surface in a morbid little pattern.

Eventually the trickle ceased, and the jar was full.


	6. Chapter 6

Klaus sat beneath the hard and pale morning light, pain coursing from his feet to his legs, to his spine. It was of an unfathomable intensity, unfair in its degree. A punishment not at all proportionate to the injury. He swallowed rapidly several times, fighting back a wave of triggered nausea and the suddenly compelling urge to use morphine. Sweet morphine, cure for multiple species of anguish. "Ensslin, let me tell you something." He coughed after a moment, through gritted teeth, before arching his back up and staring at the cold and hazy sky.

"Yeah?" The boy responded with light amusement.

"Never let a body part freeze. Not if you can't help it."

"No shit?" Paul laughed.

"The thawing process is excruciating." Klaus sighed, grimacing at the hammering flesh in his feet. With slow deliberate movements he bent down, gathered up the IV line, and disconnected it from the donation blood, rolling the warm bottle in his hands. He tried to think about what he would be doing with it, what would happen, why he was even there, but like radio static the agony was interfering with any clear thoughts – what came had a kind of milky translucence. Only a vaguely magnetic desire to finish what he had begun existed, above all other things, regardless of seemingly unfathomable consequences. And this strange core of rage, of discontent, fluttering in and out like a beacon. He shook his head as if to clear it, and with a wave summoned Manfred, "I need your help getting over to Schauble, I can't walk anymore."

Manfred came over obediently, taking Klaus's arm around his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. Paul too, stood up to help, despite the former's rebuttal.

"You need to go eat and rest." He said with a grunt, while gingerly stepping along.

"Yeah, and miss all the excitement out here? Not a chance." Paul smirked, taking Klaus's other arm as the three proceeded over to where the patient lay prone.

Taking a seat next to him, with careful yet unsteady exaction, Klaus swapped out the plasma for whole blood and began to uncover the wound again, his own head swimming from blighting discomfort. The makeshift bandages peeled away revealing the yellowed and puckered flesh, drawing up new rivulets from the clots. Klaus paused, a subtle lurch passing through his mind, staring at the bleeding mass in confusion. He clenched his teeth, needing to again to vomit, and turned away from the boy in a fevering panic. The world then contracted with incredible sharpness, exploding at once with vivid memory and lost time, he felt himself falling again into the icy embrace of the river. The drifting torment, the echoing pain and the stench of the dead. It came at once; a compounded malady. The shrill screams coexisting with suffocating silence. He trembled, he heard his breathing. Klaus then became vaguely aware that he was repeating something, "I need to." He needed to what? With a halting realization he noticed he was on the ground, laying on his side. The boys were standing over him. It was strange, he couldn't quite recall how he had gotten there.

There was a cry from somewhere out of view and they all turned away, their looks of unease changing at once to dismay. Manfred immediately came and bent over, taking Klaus by the shoulder, his motions a blur.

"Please, you have to do something!" The boy said urgently, shaking him.

In a daze, Klaus looked up to where all the attention was, suddenly remembering Shauble. How long had it been? That seemed like ages ago. With assistance he was pulled to his feet and stumbled over to where the boy lay, now dying apparently. He felt an abrupt urge to laugh but caught himself in time. What was going on here? It was absurd, the IV site was variegated with a rash. The pulse was faint and irregular. The color pallid. It seemed like he needed to do something, something specific, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what that was. Nothing really seemed real, and Klaus started to wonder if this was all some kind of hallucination. He might wake up at any time find himself back home with Monika.

_"No."_

She was gone, that was achingly true. That and the undeniably persistent agony throughout his body. His despair. His danger. Those were all indisputable.

Like a light the memory of morphine returned to him, switching on his ability to act. Stooping over Klaus located the supply bag and dug through its soggy contents for one of those small, pre-packaged vials. Without hesitation he uncapped the needle and injected the opiate into Schauble. The boy, who had been convulsing lightly, stilled; the low rattle of his breath ceasing. His heart was not long to follow.

Klaus sat back slowly, his hands on his knees, trying with a quiet intensity to figure out what had happened. His mind however was murky and uncooperative, passing thoughts slipping by without any retention. So he had killed the boy after all. Did he mean to do that? Was that the point? With a small movement Klaus adjusted his glasses, trying to ignore the sawing feeling in his toes. There had been other options. There had been.

After some period of quiet, Manfred started to say something, but thought better of it and was silent.

Finally, Paul stirred, folding his arms and eyeing his dead comrade. "What happened?" He asked.

"Well," Klaus sighed, staring at that hideous looking wound on the boy's leg. It had an otherworldly quality to it, though that may have been the morning light. "He was in shock, he had some kind of reaction to the donated blood. I-" Klaus paused, trying hard to think of how to phrase the next sentence, "I gave him a dose of morphine to end his pain. There was no way for him to survive."

"You killed him?" Manfred asked in an equally careful manner.

The way he asked that alarmed Klaus, the question held a baited venom. Options of escape came to him, but there was no way he could walk let alone run if these young soldiers became hostile. Why hadn't he considered this outcome? After a moment he replied, "It was the most humane action." That line of reasoning was directly in accordance with current propaganda, surely they would understand.

"But you killed him? Like a dog." Manfred again asked, flatly. Like Paul he folded his arms.

Klaus looked the flak assistant in the eye, trying to read his angle, and choosing his next words. With some hesitation he finally answered, "If you want to see things like that, so dramatically, then yes. He was euthanized. But-" He added softly, "Such a practice is not uncommon."

"Oh that's okay, I understand." Manfred replied, "What was your name again?"

"My name?"

"Yes, doctor, your name. I'll have to report to our commanding officer when-"

"If" Paul cut in.

"Yes, if." Manfred continued, with some visible irritation, "If he returns I'll need to explain what happened to Schauble."

"Dr. Maximilian Hirth, surgeon." Klaus replied without missing a beat, yet instantly disliking his decision. With any luck, nothing would come of it.

"Well, Dr. Hirth," Paul said as he edged near Klaus while squaring off with Manfred. "I think _you_ need some rest. You seem a little fatigued. If I didn't know any better I'd say you've had a pretty rough go of it."

The rest of the boys shifted about uncomfortably, except for Manfred, who was staring down Paul. "Yes, Dr. Hirth," He said, "I would agree with Ensslin's assessment. Really, you shouldn't have troubled yourself with Schauble in such a condition. If I had known, we may have been better served by leaving you in the river."

"You don't mean that." Paul snapped, "And if you're aiming to blame me for this shit you have another thing coming."

"Please," Klaus cut in, with rising concern, "What condition are you talking about?"

Both boys looked at him, surprised. Paul was first to speak, "You don't remember?"

"No."

He exchanged glances with Manfred before continuing. "You were on the ground, muttering something to yourself for half an hour. We tried to get you out of it, but you weren't moving."

Slowly Klaus looked from Paul to Manfred and then down to the cold, stiff earth. Was that a catatonic psychosis? Certainly it wouldn't have been anything else. He felt shocked, surprised even. Part of him didn't want to believe what they had said, however absurd that seemed. Most of all, though, he was deeply troubled, nearly panicked. Now the idea of evading the police, of making out of Germany and past the western front seemed laughably impossible. Not that it wasn't before, but this meant he couldn't even trust himself – his whole perception of reality had been compromised. Klaus took his head in his hands, exhausted, pained, grieving, and now apparently insane. No wonder he decided to murder that boy, it all made perfect sense. It was all over. It was useless.

Klaus then felt a hand rest on his shoulder, causing him to flinch. He looked up, at the same time feeling a rush of adrenaline and anxiety.

The hand belonged to Paul, who was looking down at him. "I know you can't walk, but we have a truck. Can I drive you somewhere?"

A ride? Klaus looked up at the boy, bewildered and slightly suspicious. "Yes – yes I would greatly appreciate that." He managed to say, rapidly trying to discern Paul's motive. That seemed an oddly altruistic offer; certainly it should have some ulterior goal. But what could that be? They didn't know he was wanted – at least, he hoped they didn't. Robbery was out of the question. This was a bizarre turn of events, but he certainly wouldn't pass up the offer. Anything at this point was welcome to get away from the city, the police, the bombs, and the smoke.

"You're kidding me Ensslin," Manfred sneered, "That's desertion, you'll be shot!"

"It's only desertion if some fucker squeals." Paul replied, angrily, "The way I see it, we pull this guy out of the river, right? He doesn't give a shit about himself and agreed to help a guy – who was a goner anyway – just because we asked him to. Now we owe him one."

"He killed Schauble! You saw that. He was just laying there and Schauble was dying."

"The bullets killed Schauble, you fucktard." Paul threw up his hands, "Anyone else here disagree with that?"

One boy, near Manfred, started to raise his hand.

"Fuck you, Kleinmann. I'm not dealing with your shit." Paul looked around, "Any of you fuckers gonna squeal on me? Little pigs?"

No one answered. Some stared at the ground, and others moved about indifferently.

"What about you Morik," Paul continued, "Are you done menstruating?"

Manfred said nothing in response, and with arms folded, continued to glare at Paul.

The latter moved over to Schauble's boots and started to untie the laces, causing several of the boys to elicit some remarks of disgust.

"He's not using them!" Paul spat back at them, "Christ, I have had it up to here with the bullshit in this place. Why can't anyone act like a fucking decent human being? Is that so hard?" He removed the boots and then left for the bunker nearby, emerging seconds later with a pair of socks before tossing them to Klaus. "Come on, let's go. Nothing but cowards and assholes here."

Klaus gratefully took the items, cautiously working the worn socks over his damaged feet, a small part of him repulsed by this cannibalization. The boots were still warm and turned out to be a poor fit. Concurrently, they were ideally suited for anything he could imagine to come, and for that he was grateful.

Grabbing the supply bag, Paul assisted Klaus to his feet and together they made their way down the alley away from the bunker and towards the street. "So long ladies, don't wait up for me!" The boy called back over his shoulder before they were out of sight. In silence they walked over the torn pavers to where a canvas-covered transport truck was located. "I can take you out of the city in any direction you want, but only for so far you know. We've got a limited supply of petrol to work with." Paul chatted away, almost as if to himself. "And never mind about the desertion thing, the guys wouldn't rat on me. I'm the only one in the squad halfway functional." He laughed, "They couldn't wipe their asses without me."

"Why are you helping me Ensslin?" Klaus finally asked, watching Paul climb in on the passenger side before offering a hand to help him up.

"What, you didn't buy my little speech back there? Can't a guy do a nice thing for a change?" Paul laughed in return as he hoisted Klaus into the vehicle. "You shouldn't bite the hand that feeds, and all that business." Pulling out a pair of keys from his overcoat he jammed them into the ignition. With a long and grinding crank the truck turned over and coughed into life, reeking of gasoline and hard metal. Paul pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Klaus, who accepted. There they sat and smoked for a while, waiting for the engine to warm and watching their breaths mix with the pungent, coiling fog. Then Paul said, in quite a different attitude, "You know, when I was a kid I'd never imagined myself here."

Klaus cast a sideways glance at the boy, who had fixated dead ahead. He was quite serious and wore and expression at once sour and angry. Paul looked over and, catching Klaus's eye, straightened up.

"I wanted to be a doctor. A surgeon like you." He said in a sad, proud way, "That's the only thing I've ever wanted for as long as I can remember. I worked hard in school, I kept my nose clean. And just when I think I'm going to do it, run off to university and make my parents proud, this stupid fucking war comes along and ruins everything." He gave a long and tired sigh. "I didn't even get to be a medic. Just a stupid fucker loading shells into a cannon to blow some sorry fucks out of the sky." He looked out the window, watching a woman slowly walk by on the sidewalk. "Sure, it was cool at first. But really it's just terrible." He looked back over to Klaus, "I've seen some awful shit. People do terrible things to each other." The cigarette glowed as he took another pull and exhaled slowly. "So, you know, you come along. I mean, you're a doctor. That's cool. But what's even cooler is that you agreed to help out our friend even though you're clearly a mess. That's selfless you know. Kind of inspiring. I'd like to be like that, and I wanted to help you out in return." After a quiet pause he shook his head and laughed. "Besides, anything to get out of that shit-hole you know?" Then with a light slap on the wheel he added "She's warm enough now." Taking one last drag he tossed his cigarette out the window and put the truck in gear, "Where to?"

Klaus continued smoking, thoughtfully. His wounds were in dire need of treatment and that meant finding someone he could trust to do it. There was also the immediately pressing need for sleep. Monika's parents did live on a farm not too far away but he hadn't wanted to risk involving them. Certainly though, it was too late now, and they were his best option. "I have family near Pforzheim, can you take me there?" Klaus said with a slight sigh. Monika would be furious if she knew about this.

"I can get you about halfway," Paul replied, "Though it'll take us a while. The roads are packed right now and those checkpoints, of course, aren't helping any. Will you be able to walk after that?"

"Yes, I should be able to in a few hours." Klaus replied, tossing his cigarette away. He might get lucky, he could be in and out in a day. If he came in through the back field the neighbors would be none the wiser.

"That settles it then," Paul said, adding some gas and pulling away from the curb.

The truck jarred along and on the hard bench seat Klaus was in some discomfort, bracing himself against the door to try and ease some of the motion. The cab however became pleasantly warm and he relished the heat. They passed along through the residential area, moving by people who looked aimless and forlorn, picking at the ruins of their homes like starving canids. Occasionally they would see a corpse, some would be covered but most were not. Paul pointed out a farm yard that had been hit. Behind the blasted doors lay the meaty remains of livestock, above a circling column of jackdaws raucously calling to one another. Everywhere the haze from burning ruins had settled in the streets and open spaces without a breeze to lift it away. Even with the powerful stench of gasoline Klaus could make out the acrid scent of the smoke. It made his heart race and his thoughts hard to reach and discern, like the sun itself through the fog. After some time, ruminating on Paul's words and relaxing again, Klaus spoke, "You know, you can still become a doctor."

Paul looked over quickly, surprised, and gave a chuckle. "No, I don't think so. Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"Well," Paul said thoughtfully, "It's not really up to me whether or not I can do it. I mean, who knows if there will be any universities left after the war?"

Klaus laughed softly, "Of course there will be."

"You think so?" the boy shook his head, "What if the enemy has decided they've had enough of us, you know, being around and fighting? What if they decide this time to just wipe us off the map and be done with it? Or they decide that we Germans don't deserve a good life and we're all barred from doing anything but hard labor? Times were tough after the first Great War – or so I hear. Who's to say they won't be ten times worse after this one?"

"You're worried about a lot of things that have not, and may never happen." Klaus replied after a pause. "Even after the last war when life seemed unbearable people picked up the pieces and moved on. It's like that with all wars."

"Yeah, well," Paul continued, "There's something else too. I don't think I have it in me anymore. I get really angry all the time now, like I want to kill someone. I can't sleep at night, I have nightmares. I can't even relax. Every weird noise makes me jump and it takes me hours to calm down, which makes me even angrier, you know? How could I study? I can barely do anything without breaking into a fit of rage."

Klaus looked out the window, watching three men roll a dead horse out of the street. "Ensslin," he said, slowly, "that kind of reaction, to what you've gone through. It's normal. With enough time though you'll get better, and you'll be able to move on with your life."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. And there's no point in worrying about the future like that. What comes will come. Don't give up on your goal just because you're uncertain of the outcome, that's a poor way to go about things."

Paul smirked, "You're getting all preachy."

Klaus chuckled, "Yes. I am"

They drove on in silence for a while, watching as the devastation gradually become sparse before eventually ceasing as they entered the countryside. With a sly smile, Paul asked, "So, what are your goals?"

"My goals?"

"Yeah, I told you what my goal was. You preached for a bit. Now you get to tell me your goal." Paul grinned, "It's only fair."

"Well," Klaus mused and adjusted his glasses, "My wife is in Paris. I'm going there."

"Ah, so she is alive!" the boy laughed, "After you cut your wedding band off, I assumed something rotten had happened." He then grew serious, "You mean you're going to try and make it past the West Wall and the front, through enemy territory?"

"I'm going to try."

"But that's suicide." He shook his head, "I mean, that's pretty much insane. How are you going to do it?"

Klaus gave a short, uneasy laugh, "With all honesty, I don't exactly know yet. I'm just taking it one day at a time right now."

"Not worrying about the future?"

"Not really too much, no." He smiled, "You could imagine it would be fairly frightening to dwell on. My body is injured, my mind is injured, and Paris is so very far from here."

"Kind of like me wanting to be a doctor, right?"

"Right." Klaus said with a sigh, "But I'm just going to keep trying until I either make it or die in the process." Before adding, "Like you should."

"Ah, so it comes full circle." Paul grinned before becoming solemn again. "Sounds like a hell of an adventure. And by that I mean, it sounds like a terrible thing to have to do."

"It will be, I expect no less." Klaus replied. "But I'll do anything to see my wife again."

Paul was quiet for a few moments, before saying "That's really cool. I thought you were inspiring before, but that's something else. I hope you make it."

"And I hope I can call you a colleague some day."

The boy lightened, "You really mean that?"

Klaus laughed, "Of course I do." He was, regardless of the abrasive and maladjusted attitude, quite charmed by Paul. He clearly meant well, better than most in fact, despite being thrust into such an inappropriate situation. Though he was upset and hurt, he was spirited and coping.

"You worked in the hospital didn't you?" Paul asked enthusiastically, drawing Klaus out of his thoughts.

"For a time, yes."

"What was it like? Was it busy like everyone says it is?"

Klaus talked for some time with Paul about life as a doctor and about medical school. The boy was full of questions, some serious and some a little strange. When answering Klaus avoided all the politics, the pressure, and the programs run by the state – instead staying to the more positive and encouraging subjects. They smoked more cigarettes, and Klaus even found himself becoming a little nostalgic, retelling stories of old exploits as they shook along in the transport. Progress was slow and they had to backtrack several times where certain roads had become impassible. Out on an arterial route traffic was halting, as Paul had predicted, choked with refugees at a checkpoint. As they slowly crawled towards the block, Klaus asked Paul if he might rest for a while. The flak assistant agreed and Klaus removed his glasses, placing them on the bench next to him. He pulled the military coat up by the collar and leaned against the window so that his face was partially obscured. In that position, he pretended to be asleep, though in truth his nerves pricked with anxiety and every sound caused a fresh rush of adrenaline. But just as they started to roll to a stop the truck accelerated with a small roar. Surprised, Klaus put on his glasses and looked over to Paul, who laughed.

"What, you nervous about the desertion thing? They waved us right on through."

Klaus sighed with relief, looking at the disappearing roadblock in the side mirror. For once it was a break of luck.

"But if you do want to sleep, I won't hold it against you. We've got a little ways to go yet. I'd probably suggest it," Paul grinned, "you look like shit."

"Thank you," Klaus replied, with the slightest sarcasm, and settled down on the long bench seat. He did his best despite an odd note of anxiety to let the rocking of the truck lull him into sleep. He was uneasy though with a baseline of adrenaline that caused him to jar awake every time he settled down to rest, bolting him to consciousness. It was a frustrating and exhausting situation. Klaus vaguely tried to remember what had happened, how he had gotten in such a state. But he had trouble grasping the thought and found that he could remember nothing beyond the roar of the engine.


	7. Chapter 7

It would have been a clear day. It could have been. But like a creeping affliction smoke from a thousand different sources pressed hard against the earth, settling in the valleys and clinging to the trees like a deathly moss. It obscured sight. It muffled sound and smelt of a perishing time and place. So sinister it left all feeling the profound contractions of impending catastrophe while at the same time cinching all thoughts of freedom or escape. It was as dark as it was day, the sun a dim sanguinary bulb drifting even further into crimson depths as the hours rode on, even at its zenith but a bloody point in the tepid sky. There was one look for such a place, that was of despair. One thought, and that was of fear. As if in response the earth itself was shaking with a bastard heartbeat. The low thudding was inescapable like the thunderous steps of a giant, distant and all at once present. It hammered constantly, breathlessly, like the tooth of a cog grinding along. Effortlessly its energy seemed to shock the air and find its way deep into the bowels of every crack, every crevice. Every molecule of reality.

Klaus stood by the side of a small country lane, listening to the distant thunder. At once terrified and gravitated by the hypnotizing frequency. It vibrated of danger, of death and certain destruction. A siren song, beckoning, telling tales of seductive slaughter. He stood there as if on the edge of a cliff, struck with a sudden freakish urge to jump. He felt his pulse, warm in his fingers against the cold air. His breath fettered into a thin cloud. He thought of those distant drums, of what they called, were crying out. The tantrum of war. It was chilling. Magnetizing. Some small part of his soul seemed to be screaming there, it took up a long thin wail, but the distant pounding smothered it like the roar of some frightful wind. A creeping, tingling anguish trampled by the mighty, retched desire for blood. Blood and nothing more. He stood there transfixed, anchored by a ravaging gale of hatred, of a slavering desire to find that heart – that beating drum. And tear it out. To consume and be consumed by it. It was poisonous and painful, a feeling that left him weak and dizzy. Klaus closed his eyes, his step faltering in the gravel, his body responding with every form of agony from the most minute of his multiplicitous injuries. The thrumming ceased, replaced with the dim and dull bellow of artillery, leaving him filled with nothing but hallow sorrow. Under the dark embrace of fate he then felt but some pith in a vast millstone.

He opened his eyes, under the light of late afternoon the forested land seemed tilted in shadow. It lay under its false fog, screened with frost everywhere the sun could not reach, the boughs themselves still bearing the faintest trace of snow. Klaus sighed, feeling small. Feeling worn. Feeling a depthless exhaustion. He wanted to sleep more than anything else, he wanted to be home. He wanted this to be a dream.

With a soft crunch in the muddy track Paul came walking around the other side of the truck, a somber look on his face. "Well," he said, "this is as far as I can take you Dr. Hirth." He then looked at the ground, pausing for an awkward moment, "Thanks for talking to me. I think, after all this, I'll still keep trying."

Klaus looked at the boy, who really seemed quite shrunken for his uniform, really an unlikely source of the very best help. "Ensslin," he said, hesitating but then absolutely sure, "My name is not Dr. Hirth."

"No?" Paul responded, surprised.

"It's Dr. Klaus von Gersdorff," He said, swallowing back any doubts he had and extended his hand to the boy, "Thank you for helping me. I can't tell you how much it means."

Paul, with a slightly puzzled expression, shook Klaus's hand. Then with a shrug he said, "So, the other guys shouldn't know your name I guess?"

"No," Klaus replied, "I'd much prefer if they didn't.

Paul smiled, shaking his head. "Man, you are something else. Good luck finding Mrs. von Gersdorff then." He frowned, "Be careful. I've heard stories from the front. Both fronts. It's not the direction most civilians should be headed."

"Well, there are some things you have to do." Klaus replied with a slight sigh, looking down the gravel road. It lay obscured in the haze and the darkness of the trees. With a grave nod to Paul, he started away, his sense of isolation sharpening at once within his stomach. After a moment though, he looked back at the boy climbing into the truck. "Ensslin," He called, "When you need a recommendation, look me up."

Paul laughed "See, I knew we pulled you out of that river for a reason!" With a wave he set down into the driver's seat, bringing the reluctant engine bellowing into life a few moments later. With a kind of lumbering solidness, the truck turned around and drove away, kicking up the mud in its wake.

Klaus watched it draw on, the low evanescent drone lost to distant traffic and the arrhythmic call of the front. With a shallow reluctance he turned around, peering down the empty road, trembling slightly in the quaking air. It sounded so near, and yet it couldn't be. Did he really know? Didn't sound carry further on clear days? Low frequencies were more penetrating weren't they? The front was much further than this, it seemed. The smog was simply the remnant of the bombings, trapped in typical cold weather inversion. That made sense. Yet like a tolling bell the cannon fired on, with a bastard and stark lucidity. Klaus stood there, motionless, taut like a steel string plucked with anxiety. Like a reptile frozen at a passing shadow. In his mind a hundred images came and went, rushing sound and trailing scents flooding through in a torrent, his consciousness a vast chasm in the roar. He felt sick and doubled over, weakly regurgitating saliva, at once frustrated. This wasn't him. It couldn't be. It was insane and yet the screaming, the images of fire and flesh, the smells of human mortality came unbidden. They came relentlessly and the more he tried to push them away the clearer their focus grew, the greater their sensation. Again he crawled through the corpses at the riverside, he watched the torches in the asphalt, he smelt the oil and the blood and the excrement. Klaus cringed, gritting his teeth, clenching his fists. Pain erupted in his right hand, like a light it drew him that unsavory agony. He opened his palm and stared at it, etched in blisters and blackened on the ridges and fingertips and where his wedding band had been. He looked around and noticed he was no longer on that muddy road, but in the silence of the trees. With rising panic he looked around, peering through the hazy wood for the roadway, but it was gone in the gentle rise and fall of the roots so lightly covered in frost.

_No. _

It was impossible. He had just been there on the road. That was just moments ago. Frantically Klaus searched through the trees, walking up a small rise to gain a better view and feeling the specter of despair howling at the edge of his thoughts. Nothing seemed familiar, he had tracked deep in the woods with no reference or recollection of how he come there. He searched the ground for his trail but the bed of needles gave no indication of where he had been. Panting, pleadingly he looked up at the sky, watching the fog of his breath blow steadily away. The quiet firs seemed to bend inwards like great pillars, their somber peaks faded. There was no sun for direction, the light felt of late afternoon. Caught in the air, soft crystals of snow drifted down from the boughs like the bitter remnants of some other time. It was strange they did not vibrate like the air.

Exhaustion came to Klaus, he felt a nagging pain in his left leg below the hip. The flesh on his back was tight and raw, his hand felt seared. A thousand other aches and wounds on his body called for relief. He just wanted to lay down and sleep. On the road he hadn't been too far from the farm, he could have reached the back fields just after nightfall. But now there was no hope of that. Just a long cold darkness. Klaus stood there, staring at nothing, thinking of the cold. Thinking of the pain and the distance, and no end in sight. He stood there slack, staring straight ahead, at once feeling every form of aggravation and anguish in the pit of his heart.

And then there was nothing. Nothing at all. Like a smooth and callous hand pale indifference had come blanking in, spreading a balm obscuring thought and need and leaving him with absolutely nothing to grasp. Slowly Klaus shifted the supply bag and wrapped the coat tightly about his body. He then began to walk, arbitrarily, not caring where he was going just so long as it was somewhere. It didn't matter anymore. He could stand under the trees, he could walk to his death, it did not matter. Like a ghoul he moved without passion or purpose, picking his way in the gray light beneath dark and brooding trees. Like a faded husk he drifted through that echoing space with muffled footsteps. His mind could conjure nothing, his body protested to a senseless creature. With profound distraction he labored onward. Numb but for a small, small memory of grief.

There was regret. A long and endless bought of regret. He had come home and she had been there. It was late for the one hundredth time. It could have been the thousandth, that was immaterial. The number didn't matter. What mattered was he was drunk and she had had enough of it. She was normally so quiet, she would let him go. But this night she yelled and argued, and she pressed, and he finally told her. After years of lying he had finally said what he needed to, about what he was. About what he'd been doing.

She was shocked. Mortified. Appalled didn't begin to describe it. He could tell from her silence. The way she had looked at him. It wasn't icy. It wasn't anger. Just this quiet look of disbelief, like she could see straight beyond him. Without a word she left. Took her coat and walked out the door. She stayed at her parents' place for a month. He had thought she was gone for good. He would have deserved it. But a call came, and it was her. What a somber conversation. He had wanted to say so many things yet she wouldn't let him speak. With very careful words she had told him that she would come back, but he had to find somewhere else to work. He wanted to protest, he wanted to explain how difficult that would be, the risks involved for both of them, but he knew she was right. So, on a Monday afternoon, she came back. She didn't treat him with scorn or shame. She had returned like she had never left and sure enough he had transferred and the subject lay dormant between them.

Yet some small part of him had always wanted to ask her. He wanted to know if she felt any differently for him, about him, than from when before she knew. She always conducted their relationship with the utmost dignity, refusing to argue or debate, remaining somewhat enigmatic about her feelings unless asked directly. It was something he had loved about her, but it tormented him. The fear of knowing the truth. It was the one thing he could not bear to discuss with her, like certain things once said could not be undone. With time though, his doubts had faded until he had forgotten them altogether.

And yesterday it seemed there had been no cause for question. How strange it was that it was only yesterday. And now here he was blindly trudging through the failing light, a faded figure beyond the last shred of exhaustion.

A small flicker lay in the woods ahead and Klaus focused on it, drawn from his thoughts. It scattered through the smoke and across the dark trees. All the world seemed black and unmanageable as he stumbled along moving towards this odd glow. He felt his breath quicken. It wasn't a house or a village, there were no dogs barking or cars. Just this strange, dancing light. With a grunt, Klaus slammed into a fallen branch, unseen before him. He nearly fell over the thing, steadying himself on a nearby trunk. They were everywhere and he had to proceed cautiously, feeling out a path through the roots and leaves, scraping through bushes. It became piercingly obvious that the source of light was a fire, though low burning, like embers. It came from a clearing, casting wavering shafts upon the trunks and throwing in high relief the long ravines of bark. Slowly Klaus made his way up to the treeline, squinting to make sense of what came before him.

In strange and angular shadows lay some massive airplane, its spine broken and mangled at a wretched angle like some unholy fish, dark skin glowing in the light of failing fires and cavities pouring black smoke. Klaus looked at it with disbelief, then seeing this plane and the hundreds above him at once like rainclouds. It shot through him like a bullet and was gone. After a moment of hesitation he quietly made his way to the great hulk, walking down the slope of deep and charred ruts. Metal debris was everywhere, glinting amid branches and great chunks of wood. Breathlessly Klaus continued down, cold forgotten, with an admixture of fear and interest. Interest at this cause of all the pain and torment. It was so very odd to see it on the ground, harmless. Nearly pathetic. He continued past a great wing, intact by some fantastic and meaningless miracle, though a gawking hole spoke of where an engine had been. It was a British bomber, he knew the markings well enough. The body of the plane lay scorched with great ribs exposed from shredded skin. What remained of the cockpit was a crumpled mass, a tangled cage. The tail was fairly unscathed, two bent fins climbing out like a mutated whale. The enormity of the thing was mind boggling, he'd never seen such a plane up close. Only from below.

Klaus walked around to the other side, stepping around several piles of debris that lay smoldering in the grass. The other wing was missing almost in its entirety, the body one long gaping hole staring out like a carcass. He stood there taking in the destruction. The chaos, the machination of energy unleashed and let wild. It was a strangely soothing sight, for the caustic smell of burnt petrol and wood and rubber. The gentle cracking of the fire and shallow surges of burning fuel filled the void above an ever-present drumming in the earth. The plane lay like a burning altar to some obscene god, its occupants the offering. An ugly, sensational vision.

After a while longer, satisfied, Klaus again walked around the great beast and headed back up in the direction he had come. But as he picked his way through the grass he noticed then the figure of a man, sitting, huddled against a sheet of discarded aluminum. Klaus froze, watching the dark form, wondering how anything could have survived such a terrible circumstance. After a few moments it became apparent the man was slumped and did not move. Wrapping his coat tighter about himself, Klaus then proceeded cautiously up to the body, drawn by nothing less than a gnashing curiosity. As he approached he noticed the figure's hand lay on his gut, covering a large and sopping patch of fabric. It glistened with fresh blood.

With a cold, prickling sensation Klaus froze dead, staring at the man and not sure of what to do. He was alive. Was he armed or hostile?

Before any question could be answered the man stirred and looked up, his eyes locking with Klaus's and betraying every shade of anxiety. He sat there motionless holding his hand to his stomach, sitting for a quiet eternity with a breath shallow and passing. Then a gradual and shaky hand reached up and dug unobtrusively into the front pocket of his jumpsuit. With effort the man produced from it a small piece of paper, crumpled from heavy handling, and in a faltering way held it out to Klaus. His eyes were docile, though focused sharply.

Klaus stood there for a moment, watching the paper and the man. He had misgivings, a deep mistrust, but in the end he found himself kneeling down. Turning the paper over in his hand revealing it to be a photograph, of a woman and a child. A simple portrait. Klaus looked at the man, who said something hoarse and in English. The situation was obvious enough, he didn't necessarily have to understand. He paused there for a moment before returning the photo.

The man offered a weak smile and tucked the token back away, shifting his other hand uncomfortably on the wound. Again he passed a few remarks, watching Klaus with a wary expectancy.

Klaus returned the gaze for a moment before glancing back behind him at the wreck. It seemed so incredible that this man had survived. There were no other signs, not even the bodies of what were undoubtedly many others. It would seem almost unfair. This man who had gone through so much now abandoned here to die, buried alone in hostile territory. What were even the chances of him clinging to life, how tenuous it may be, in such a way? This man who, perhaps the night before, had laid waste to everything he had ever known. Klaus looked back at the injured soldier, who had a pleading look in his eyes. But with what right did he plead? The fires raged on, the artillery swelled, and still he sat there with a small light of hope. That everything would be okay. That it would all turn out in the end.

On his knees Klaus looked at the man, suddenly feeling a tinge of nausea. In his very center something crazed and venomous had stirred, causing his breath to stutter slightly. The world was somewhat tilted as it span away into the night. With a firm and continuous movement Klaus reached out and locked his hands around the man's throat, grinding his thumbs deep into the flesh with the sole intent of crushing the trachea. The eyes staring back into his were shocked and panicked, wavering back and forth in a spasmic reaction. Weak attempts came to dislodge the attack, but they were without hope. Klaus gritted his teeth and bore even deeper, at once pained and infuriated, watching the desperation unfold before him as the man struggled to free himself, choking and spitting up a great wreath of foam. It was relieving to see, the futile fight. There would be no mercy given, no promise of a happy ending at some untouched home so far away. No safe escape from oblivion, no alternative to death. In a lopsided fashion the struggle dragged, though eventually the man's movements slowed, slackening while his eyes rolled away. Klaus continued to hold him, dug into the hot flesh, his breath rasping and watching every trace of life drain out until finally, after a low eternity, the pulse ceased.

Panting, Klaus released him, staggering reluctantly from the body. Everything seemed a kind of blur with a cold sting and the steady thrum of a distant machine. He looked back at the man, who now was a corpse, and started a low and quiet laugh.

Though it was black it was not the night.


	8. Chapter 8

Memory could not grasp what had occurred, hour upon hour of torturous movement through darkness, the biting cold and blinding pain staggering along in an endless void. The gaping space between innumerable trees and the clutching hands of undergrowth. The stiff earth gnarled under hard frost and broken with the twisted and solid backs of roots, curled and swelled among the leaves and needles. Klaus, a figure lost to all sensation, a prisoner of body and mind blearily stumbled in half-wakefulness driven only by axial pain and a distant consciousness. He fell forward, scraping hard against the uneven ground before immediately rising again to his feet, sensing obliquely that to stop would be to die. With the urgency of an animal pursued he crashed onward, gasping through the crystalline air and trying desperately to think of nothing at all. Yet his mind recalled constantly and obsessively every minutia of horror he was witness to, fixating and cavitating upon the raw impressions, fleshing out the slightest detail with compulsive precision. At first the recollections had been met with nausea and retching, however as time passed Klaus had found himself too exhausted even for that. So he wandered on, dead to all but his private torment, longing for an end and yet tethered to his reality. Evermore the forest laying stark and barren in the depths of night and he empty within it.

Yet eventually with the smooth softness of a tender leaf, the blackness in the world began to furl away, bringing a washed palette of grays and blues and the promise of some unseen day. Everything lay cold and hazy in the damp and growing light and Klaus felt the tension and fear pressing at his heels begin to fade with the darkness. Relief then came to him with the sign of the morning, of some light and whatever fetid warmth it may offer; something to distract from the omniscient words of distant artillery and the serpentine lengths of his psyche lashing continually away in a poisonous tantrum. He paused, leaning against one of the tall pines, catching his breath and digging a good hand into rough bark. The frost melted and burned against his numb fingers as he waited quietly, closing his eyes and licking his parched lips.

Klaus felt his pulse begin to slow, the knot of pounding adrenaline in his heart start to loosen, leaving a soothing and vacant feeling of fatigue. It would be alright, he just had to keep going. One direction and he'd come out in a field eventually.

Ghastly images still danced unbidden into view though, threatening to draw him back into a fugue. With a long and shaky sigh Klaus opened his eyes again, with pain digging his fingers deeper into the tree. He would not lose himself. Not now.

Then, as if in agreement, the long and trilling call of a rooster came drifting through the forest. Rigid, Klaus listened to it, trying to discern the direction, a faint trace of joy stirring somewhere in his thoughts. That was it, he was close to the end now. After an agony of silence again the rooster called, this time loud and strong as in celebration, the lauds bringing with them a sweet and soothing warmth like a summer breeze. It carried a fresh energy to Klaus and the idea that perhaps he could swallow back and endure the pain. There was a promise in the rooster's call and he could have cried for the relief it brought, suddenly the death and the sorrow seemed so much smaller, replaced with dim memories of a pleasant past and their fortune for a kind future. Of rest and food and comfort.

Clumsily Klaus started off, limping through the wood with a moth-like single-mindedness, dredging onward through the slick underbrush. He could not wait to leave the darkness of the trees for the long and open fields he had loved so much. He knew the area surrounding this forest quite well, he and Monika had gone riding often on the small trails and paths near her family's farm. Those had been far better days, in the youth of their marriage. He a bright and naïve intern, she a scholar and hopeful bride. It seemed like anything could have gone their way back then; things were green, lush, and growing. The wine was stronger, life was easier. They'd come on the weekends and holidays to the farm, sneak off together in the back fields and spend lazy hours beneath the shade of a tree. He could almost smell the hot summer air and the corn, hear the sounds of their lovemaking, and her laughter. The intoxicating afternoon light as they'd wander back to the house, hand in hand, tired and hungry. It was all too good to be true.

And yet it was, for a brief while. He loved that farm and everything that came with it. Rising early in the morning to accompany her father in the fields, the labor into tending crop and livestock, the drinking and eating with assorted cousins and hands in the evening. It was so simple and idyllic compared to his own rather sterile upbringing near the city. Monika would often tease him about this, saying that he only liked it because he had other options, whereas she had grown up there and would have had no prospects if her parents had not indulged her wishes to attend school – something certainly impossible if there were siblings. He would often respond with incredulity about what prospects translating and stenography would have offered her, but she'd always just smile in return. And of course she was right, but that didn't stop him from thoroughly enjoying himself, playing at farmwork, and idly threatening to give up medicine and move out to the country whenever he was moderately cross with her. Their arguments were so slight back then though, they could hardly be considered such. Nothing like the ones to come a few years down the line where they were together, frustrated, and childless, his own mother callously claiming to be right in that the farm girl was a poor match for him.

But perhaps even now their childlessness, a source a great discord between them in previous years, had in fact proved to be a blessing. Klaus couldn't imagine trying to manage children along with a wife during such times, it seemed an insurmountable challenge. Would he have made different decisions? Could he have? It was difficult to fathom how life would have been different.

Ahead the rooster called again, the long and growling yell splitting much more clearly now the pre-dawn air. The trees had begun to thin, and Klaus could make out where a wide field lay fallow beyond, grass white with frost and blanketed with a shallow fog. The scene would have been one of profound peace, the dark shapes of several cows could be seen already up and moving slowly amid the grass, but the deep rumble of the earth bespoke some violence out of sight and the human tragedy it entailed. A thought came leaping in, the memory of the night previous, a quick flash of fire and the eyes of the British soldier. But Klaus, so close to safety, put it down and away. He steeled himself against the disgust and the panic. It didn't quite seem like him after all, had he be dreaming it? Those kinds of thoughts were best left for later. Quickly he moved on from them.

Stopping just outside the trees, he looked around, ignoring a nagging fear. East was apparently behind him in the forest, a dull light growing in the dim and hazy sky. The fog had made it difficult to see landmarks, but the place seemed familiar regardless. After a few more moments, he finally caught his bearings. He was about a kilometer north of the farm, the footpath hugging the treeline would take him right to their back-fields. Feeling slightly giddy, slightly dizzy, and vastly spent Klaus stumbled down onto the cold-hardened trail, limping hastily. It was almost over. Thinking back he could hardly imagine how he had gotten here, how it had even been possible. When he finally did reach Monika he would have to tell her of it. She would be proud, he thought.

It was a quiet morning, the only sounds nearby being the rooster and an occasional lowing from the cows. Faintly he would hear a whinny, from someone's stable no doubt, or the lazy barking of a dog. The stillness before a day was slowly losing its hold, the direction of sunrise only recently apparent. Klaus judged it to be around four in the morning, which would be perfect timing. The family would be rising soon and he'd be able to slip in without causing too much of a fuss. Eagerly he hobbled along, sliding through the icy ruts on what otherwise would have been a muddy track, his breath steaming. Against the pain a promise of warmth and bed-rest was almost too sweet to imagine.

Then, with all the glory of the coming sunrise, the back fields came drifting into sight through the fog. Klaus started to laugh softly, wanting even to cry. Never had a sight been so beautiful, those great muddy plots plowed deeply into the earth. He tried to jog, but slowed, the pain in his left leg becoming untenable. So instead he simply continued to walk quickly along the path, searching out where the farmhouse lay nestled near the small orchard. The first bloody streaks of dawn were reaching out above him, lifting the dusky light and bringing color back into the world. Gradually the outer yard became visible, then the low wall of the inner yard; the quiet and contented mewling of chickens could be heard alongside the mumblings of the rooster. Klaus slowed a little, relieved to have finally reached the end. It felt like the longest, most impossible race was over. He limped past the feed sheds and carts and approached the back gate, smelling all of the old familiar smells with relish. With a pull of the drawstring and a long and tired creak the door gave way and he passed into the yard, closing it behind him. Near the stable in his pen the old shepherd dog erupted with a torrent of violent snarling, driving the chickens into a frenzy.

After a few moments of this commotion movement could be heard in the house and with them the strained sounds of a hurried conversation. Klaus made his way to the old building, again admiring the dormant grape vines that climbed the whole back of the structure and along the awnings. They were always quite the sight foliaged in the height of summer.

Then with a loud bang and some kind of indiscernible exclamation Monika's father, Richard Bauermann, threw open the back door and came barreling out of the house with an old shotgun in hand. He was a short and rather lean man, balding with age and worry, yet still strong and even youthful in gait from a long life of honest labor. With a coat thrown over his night shirt and hastily donned muckboots he came striding across the yard towards the henhouse before stopping dead in his tracks, seeing Klaus. For a moment he stared in disbelief, squinting in the early light, and then a heartbeat later raised the gun with a shout.

"You!" he cried, "Where's my daughter, God damn it!"

Klaus, shocked, raised his hands in submission, not knowing how to respond. In the house there came a cry from upstairs and the sounds of someone else moving about. Moments later Marie Bauermann came hurrying out in nothing but her robes and slippers. She was a solemn and round woman, with graying hair and tired eyes.

Seeing her husband she bawled over the dog, "Klaus! Richard! Richard put your gun down!" Quickly she shuffled over to Klaus, looking him over with the same expression of fear and disbelief as her spouse. "Klaus," she said quietly to him, "Klaus I can't believe it's really you."

Monika's father lowered his gun with a growl before spitting discontentedly into the dirt.

His wife continued after exchanging a quick glance, "The Gestapo came in the night, Klaus. They said you'd murdered someone." She eyed her son-in-law cautiously, "Is it really true?"

Klaus, feeling his throat grow dry, wrapped his coat more tightly about him. He had both a shot of adrenaline and a prickling feeling crawling up his spine, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. After a moment he replied carefully, "Well, it wasn't exactly murder," at the same time feeling the slow beat of panic rising from his gut.

Richard gave a short bark, grunting his distrust and leering. A look from his wife though and he held his peace.

"Klaus," Marie continued cautiously, "They said your medical license has been revoked. There's suspicion of treason." Her voice was earnest.

Klaus looked at her, blinking. A strange black realization coming to him, one that he had been suppressing for a long while. That there was no returning after what he had done, no resumption of their normal life. It was over. It crept like a rotten thing, this feckless feeling. A careless confirmation of reality, of the truth and gravity of his situation.

"Where is Monika, Klaus?" Richard finally spoke, his temper baited beneath his breath.

"Sh-," Klaus attempted to speak, having trouble finding his voice. "She's safe. She's in Paris –"

"In Paris?" the older man interrupted, glaring.

"Yes, as far as I know, in Paris." Klaus finished, suddenly feeling hopeless and exhausted again.

"Well," the older man replied, his features softening slightly, "Okay then, I guess that's alright." Hooking his gun on the crook of his arms he strode over, "Well, come on inside then boy, you look like you've been through hell and back."

"Oh yes Klaus, you must!" Monika's mother agreed before taking him protectively by the arm and leading him towards the house, "But you'll have to forgive the poor accommodations dear," she said, "the power has been out for over a week now, we've had to haul all the water in by hand from the well."

"Eh, not too different from when I was a boy," Monika's father cut in gruffly before shouting back over his shoulder, "Bear! Quiet!" the old dog obliged with a whine and a low growl before resuming his chore half-heartedly. "Stupid dog," Richard remarked, opening the back door before saying, "Well, at least it will be light out soon."

The kitchen inside was still quite dark in the early morning. Klaus made his way over to the thick table, taking the supply bag off and feeling his way about while Monika's mother hurried over to the wood stove, opening it to reveal coals still glowing from the previous night. She stoked them with a poker before tossing in some fresh fuel. "Richard," she called to her husband while tying on an apron.

"What?" the older man replied, hanging his shotgun up in the nearby hall.

"Why don't you heat some water?" She glanced over to Klaus, who had taken a seat. "You'll want to wash up won't you dear?" Klaus nodded sluggishly, feeling the strong urge to fall asleep there at the table despite the small and nagging worry swimming in the back of his mind. He was simply too tired though to be bothered with it.

Monika's father returned to the kitchen, which was now pale in the glowing light. He carried an expression of mild irritation on his face. "What on earth for?" he asked before looking at Klaus and answering his own question. "Oh," he muttered, before stamping off, grumbling to himself.

Marie chuckled, adding more fuel to the stove before closing it. Bustling back over to the door she slipped on a pair of boots and disappeared out back.

Klaus sighed, resting his head in his arms at the table, doing his best to remain awake.

After a few minutes the older woman returned with eggs tucked into her apron. She clucked pityingly upon seeing her son-in-law, and reached down to tousle his hair affectionately before jerking her hand back. "Klaus!" she exclaimed, "You are injured?"

Klaus looked up at her, not really knowing how to respond to such a remark. He resolved to simply nod.

"How badly?" the woman continued, her brow knitted with worry, "You were in the bombing weren't you? I knew it by looking at you."

"Well," he responded, trying to keep the weariness from his voice, "I don't really know yet. Not so bad to keep me from standing though."

She shook her head sadly, almost mournfully, but said nothing as she turned to continue preparing a breakfast. After a while she spoke quietly, "You know, they hit Pforzheim too."

Klaus closed his eyes, not wanting to even think about it. But the images came regardless.

After some time in silence Monika's father came stamping back in, a large round loaf of bread beneath his arm. "Well woman," he said, "Your water is being heated." He then went over and deposited his parcel on the counter before taking a seat at the table with Klaus. "So son," he said after a minute, "How badly are you hurt?"

Monika's mother answered for him as Klaus sat up to face the older man, "He's fine for now Richard, just let him be."

He grunted in return, waving off his wife before turning again to Klaus, "I'll be honest with you, we can't keep you here. You can stay tonight, but tomorrow morning you've got to be out." Marie started to interrupt, but he held up his hand to quiet her before continuing, "Now," he said, "I know where you've been. I know that look in your eye, I've seen it before. And we'll do our best to help you, but you have to promise me one thing."

"What is that?" Klaus asked.

"You have to go find my daughter, and make sure she's alright. I don't like this funny business with her being in Paris without you."

"Richard!" his wife exclaimed, angrily.

"Marie." He replied, sternly, then addressed Klaus once again, "A man has to keep his wife. You know that, I know that. It's that simple," he paused, casting a glance to his spouse to hold any interruption, "But the way I see it, once you go off to fetch her and all this blows over, you both can come back here to the farm. Maybe lend us a hand. Sure, you can't do your doctor's work anymore, but it's a better option here than letting this place pass on to one of the nephews."

Klaus looked at the older man, dumbfounded. He still couldn't believe the idea, that this offer was serious. He had yet to accept that his license was gone, and here there were active plans for a future without it. But it was repulsive. His whole life, since he was a boy, had been founded on medicine. All of his hopes, dreams, and work had been bent on that single goal. And now to have lost it? To just move on and do something else?

"You promise you'll go find my girl?" Richard asked while extending his hand.

"I promise." Klaus replied, somewhat weakly, but did not offer his hand in return, "Please forgive me if I don't shake on it though." He said.

The older man eyed the burns warily, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. After a few moments he said, "Alright, off with that coat, let's see the rest of you."

They stood up and Klaus obligingly removed the stiff garment, standing shirtless in the warming kitchen. He turned around to show his back to Monika's father, who in turn let out a low whistle. The mother too, watched, though uncharacteristically she said nothing.

"I think you should take a look at that one yourself," Richard said, "come upstairs with me."

Klaus followed the man up the old stairs and down a short hallway into one of the bedrooms. On the floor stood a long mirror, and there Klaus finally was able to examine his back, stretching around painfully to look. What he saw was much worse than he had expected, or even felt. There was a long and deep laceration traversing the length of his lower torso, the skin torn and caked with dried blood, beginning to swell from infection. The wound would have to be closed, but without an antibiotic it would most certainly go septic. "Is my kit still here in the guest room?" He asked after a long while, staring at the jagged injury.

"Yeah, it's still here, though, I may have used a few of the things you had in there." Monika's father replied, somewhat sheepishly, following Klaus down the hallway into a smaller adjoining room. He bent down beneath the bed and hauled out the small briefcase, setting it on the nearby desk.

Klaus opened it up, rummaging around. It looked like the topical antibiotic was missing, along with the anesthetics. But otherwise everything else was in order. "Do you still remember how to suture?" he asked the older man.

"Sure I do," Richard replied, "That's what I was saying. Just did it the other day when our best sow got in a scrape, used some of the medicine in there too."

Pulling out the only antibiotic in the kit, a sulfa drug, Klaus extracted an appropriate dosage and swallowed the pills thoughtfully. It would not be fun or easy to try and close the wound on his back, especially without the local anesthetics. But he could always use the morphine if the pain became unbearable, though the opiate would honestly be best avoided. Klaus closed the briefcase and turned to Monika's father, with a tired sigh asking, "Would you mind helping me close the wound on my back?"

The older man gave a broad grin, "I'd thought you'd never ask." He said, "But after breakfast."

Klaus responded with a half-hearted chuckle, grabbed a fresh change of clothes along with the kit, and followed his father-in-law back downstairs into the kitchen where Marie had finished cooking, now in the process of laying out food on the table. Both he and Richard took their seats and began to eat what was a simple meal, as they tended to be. Despite the length of time he had gone without food though, Klaus found himself surprisingly without an appetite. Such was the depth of his concerns that any true desire for sustenance seemed just a secondary consideration. Marie chided him for this, as was her place to so, but still he ate little. This prompted Richard to produce some korn, a home-distillation, as a remedy for his poor appetite, though this offering was also refused for the time being. In the end Klaus was resigned that he simply was too tired to eat much, an explanation readily accepted by his in-laws, and it was left at that.

After breakfast Klaus retired to the washroom, where water had been drawn and heated for him. It was a process at once agonizing and divine as he sunk into the depths of the ancient washtub, scraping away days-old grime and sweat and blood. The bathwater was quickly sullied while Klaus went about tallying the various marks and injuries about his body. Of most concern was his back of course, and his hand. Both should be treated and bandaged. There were several other minor burns and lacerations that could be left to their own. The pain in his left leg was the result of a sprain, quite aggravated at this point as was witnessed by the degree of swelling. But otherwise everything seemed quite manageable, despite the knowledge that he would be moving on again the following morning.

Clean and with a fresh change of clothes Klaus limped, still shirtless, back into the dining area. He sat there for a while taking inventory of the supply bag before Monika's father returned by the back door.

"You know, I've been thinking," the older man started as he walked in, shaking off his muckboots, "I'm going to let you take Kelpie when you leave. She's doing nothing here but eating, and it hasn't quite been the same since I've had to sell the others."

Klaus looked up at him, surprised, "Really?"

Richard grimaced, "Yeah. I don't see why not." After a slight pause he added, "You be sure to treat her right though, she's the best hunter I've had in a number of years."

"Yes, of course!" Klaus responded, completely floored. If there was anything that he needed and not expected at the moment, it was transportation. Kelpie happened to be a fantastic horse, and it was no small favor done. "I really don't know how to thank you."

"Just bring my daughter back, that's all I want." Richard replied plainly. There was a long and fairly awkward silence after which he added, "So, are you ready for me to go to work on your back?"

Klaus raised his eyebrows, "Oh yes, certainly," he replied, "This is something I am always ready for." Standing up slowly he started to clear off the table, then pulling out the suture kit, antibiotic, and bandaging. While he had taught Monika's father how to do this several years ago, Klaus could still not help but feel a profound apprehension about the whole procedure. As far as he knew, none of the livestock had died, but now this was the real game and the consequences of a poor job could kill him.

Taking out the sulfonamide, Klaus crushed several of the tablets into a bowl, reducing them to a powder before setting it aside. He then asked Monika's father to fetch some water and, while the older man was gone, prepped the needle, swabs, and bandages, growing more and more anxious as time progressed. After a short period Richard returned, Marie at his heels, and the water was set to heat over the stove. Monika's mother too seemed ill at ease, though her husband was confident. While waiting for hot water the bottle of korn was produced and Klaus proceeded to pour himself a generous helping of the clear, pungent liquid into a drinking glass. He threw it back quickly and repeated, counting on the alcohol to more calm his nerves than dull the pain. Finally, with a kind of solemnity, Klaus then produced a pair of surgical gloves and carbolic soap from the kit.

"Now," He started, addressing Richard slowly and clearly, "You're going to put the gloves on and wash them and the instruments with phenol."

"Phenol?" the older man asked.

"Yes," Klaus replied, holding up the bar of soap, "Phenol. After that I want you to disinfect the wound and surrounding areas with the alcohol," he held up the bottle of liquor, doing his best to sound confident in his instructions. But unless he was actually doing it himself, he was convinced that he would never be at ease. "After this," Klaus continued, "take the powder and apply it directly into the wound and surrounding areas, like you did with the alcohol."

"Why?"

"It's an antibiotic and has been known to work topically." Klaus replied flatly, pausing a moment before continuing, "Then proceed to suture the wound. Remember, do the inner layers first and for heaven's sake do not leave any dead space in your work. All parts of the flesh should seam together well until the very upper layers. Remember to knot after every pass and be sure not to tie it too tightly. The thread should not indent the flesh at all." Klaus paused, trying to think of any other instruction. After a moment he sighed, "When you're done, repeat the disinfecting process and bandage it."

Richard chuckled lightly, "Worried a little, huh?"

Klaus shook his head, pouring three more oversized shots of liquor while feeling the warm, blearing effects drive in. He swallowed them back while supervising Monika's father scrub himself in the hot water, an idle and alarming thought passing by. Of how much he hated phenol, in actuality. Of how much that one chemical had changed his life. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was there and its truth was plain.

Putting his glass aside with a kind of morbid finality Klaus then climbed onto the table and lay on his stomach, trying to look over his shoulder before eventually giving up and resting his chin on his arms. After a brief pause the alcohol swabbing came, and though the pain was dulled somewhat it was still a fearsome thing, causing a wretched agony to cascade up his spine and he to gasp for the shock of it. It was all he could do in his stupor to grip the table with his good hand and grit his teeth. He heard somewhere distantly that he was being spoken to, but he could not listen or comprehend, or respond. His ears were ringing as the first of many times the suture needle dug into his wound and passed through it, relentlessly. Klaus cried out, he cursed, he saw fear and hateful things dance before is eyes as he lay there helpless, feeling the tip bore through his tissue, igniting nerve endings. Nausea came quickly and he began to retch, his convulsions interrupting the process momentarily. Shortly though the spasms passed and he lay there wincing and grinding his teeth, doing his level best to fight the desire to throw himself off the table and be done with it.

After a single eternity the rolling pain lessened though, flaring up with the final dousing of alcohol before receding into a dull throb. The job was finished and Klaus lay there panting, sweaty, and at the end of his senses. Gently he was maneuvered around and his burnt hand was bandaged before he was assisted off of the table by Monika's father. Then gradually they made their way up the stairs, Klaus still quite shaky on his feet, to the room with the long mirror. There he blearily surveyed the handiwork of his father-in-law all the while leaning heavily on the latter. It was nowhere near the quality he would have displayed personally, but as far as he could tell within his present state of mind, the job was done correctly.

"Well," Klaus said, still surveying the stitching and slightly slurring his speech, "As long as there aren't any cavities in there I think it'll be alright."

Monika's father smiled, quite proudly, as his wife proceeded to cover the wound in bandaging. The two spoke to each other quietly of things to be done that day and other worries all the while.

When the work was finished Klaus was led into the spare bedroom and there he finally lay down to rest, quickly falling into a deep sleep.

(X)

Klaus was roused from the furthest reaches of unconsciousness to something shaking him, in the time he took fighting to open his eyes a thousand memories flashed away, piecing together where he could possibly be. The blurry vision started to come, but of darkness, in his ears he heard a hurried whispering.

"Klaus! Klaus!" It was the voice of Marie, Monika's mother.

He then remembered everything quite suddenly, and jammed his eyes open the best he could for fear of the urgency in her words. He tried to speak but only a hoarse groan came out, his breath still reeking of alcohol.

"Klaus!" Monika's mother continued to shake him, now half pulling him out of bed, "Klaus, come on!" She was on the verge of panic.

This quickened his reactions as slowly he regained his bearing and balance, reaching for where his glasses were kept on the nightstand. Shoving them on and rolling out of bed to the cold floor, he could see Monika's mother through the darkness moving about the small room hastily and throwing some of his clothes into a bag. Grabbing his riding boots out of a corner she tossed them to him and like a cold bullet Klaus knew instantly what was happening. He started shoving them onto his feet as quickly as was possible with one good hand.

As he struggled, the older woman came over and gave him a coat, whispering frantically, "There's food in the bag, and money. Go downstairs out the back door and be quiet!" She then kissed him on both cheeks and left, heading down and out of sight.

Boots on Klaus donned his winter coat before slinging the pack over a shoulder and creeping quietly downstairs, every hair standing on end as he listened for the slightest sound. It was the very making of a nightmare, and his heart pounded away with each creaking footstep. At last in the kitchen he paused to toss what medical supplies he could find in the bag before sneaking out the back.

In the farm yard things were oddly quiet; Bear was pacing and whining in his pen while the back gate stood wide open. With an eerie, sinking feeling Klaus then notice in the dark the form of Kelpie, saddled and ready, halter rope tied to the post. She shifted somewhat nervously in her track, ears pinned, and let out a low sigh. Quietly Klaus made his way to the horse, doing his best the keep her from startling any further. With a deliberate movement he untied the rope and moved to stow it. She jerked her head back quickly, causing him to catch his breath as adrenaline pierced through his veins, but it was a false alarm and she soon settled again as if in recognition.

Then going to her right side Klaus mounted with his good leg and slid into the saddle, noting with surprise that the stirrups had been already adjusted for him. Shifting the pack more comfortably over his shoulders he then gently eased the horse around to get her out the gate. Slowly they walked out, scraping past the old shepherd dog who continued to pace and whine. It was a cold night and with loud sighs her barrel squeezed out great clouds of steam as they moved out into the lots behind the house.

It was then Bear erupted into his deluge of savagery and Klaus could hear over him the sound of voices coming out front. He froze like a statue, feeling like ice as the black mare shifted uneasily beneath him. He reigned her down, straining to hear what was happening. There were sounds of anger, it seemed. Of conflict. With a scathing reluctance Klaus urged the horse out towards the back fields, still at a walk, and fearing to make any further noise.

Then, clear as the bells of Sunday morning he could hear rising voices. Shouting. He pushed Kelpie forward to a trot, then a canter, taking off into the night. In his stomach a hot feeling rose, of grief and dread waiting for the sounds that he most hated to ring out into the void.

And they came. Gunshots as he rode away, several. More snarling as he disappeared to the blackness beyond. The long long barking, another rapport.

Then a perfect and utter silence.

Out along the path by the trees, Klaus felt his face burn in the cold wind that went rushing by, while tears came with crushing remorse. Stolen away on a dark ride he carried on, without looking back to the shattered remnants of a life now permanently left behind. The impossible, the unspeakable, had all come to be and he found himself listlessly hoping upon ruinous hope that it was just some sordid dream. Some broken and corrupt memory. But every pain pinched of relentless reality, a reality so recklessly and entirely enacted by his own hand. It could not be grappled with, reasoned with, or even slightly endured.

Klaus, low in the saddle, rode onwards. Passing the dark trees and passing away from himself.

**End Act I**


	9. Chapter 9

A heart. A beating heart.

That twitching mass of blood and tissue, nestled safely behind an imperfect screen of bone, working tirelessly. A beating heart, a heavy heart, the painful heart. Perennial subject of aphorism and analogy, overblown and overimagined. A simple pump of flesh - smaller than credited, fragile and soft. A strange and oddly impersonal thing for all the grief, all the agony it seemed to create.

It was absent, an icy blackness settled in his chest where the organ ought to have been. His pulse felt old and hollow. He rocked slowly from side to side to the gentle walk of the horse, listening to the rhythm in the darkness. The muddy slosh of hooves on the wet roadway, the tweak of bit and weathered sigh of leather were quiet murmurs to the tall and silent trees. It was a pregnant moment, ahead the low clouds were glowing a heady orange, though east lay behind and dawn would not come for another two hours.

Klaus listened and what he heard would be the sound of a nightmare, distant and aching. The sound of clamoring misfortune and jarring terror. Ahead lay Karlsruhe, some kilometers further still. But the roar was unmistakable, the chaos pitted in his memory. The planes had returned on this night, their great and lazy rumblings bringing death to the city in eruptions of fire and misery. Above and unseen they would pass with throaty roars, endlessly it seemed, long formations slipping by like shadows in the dark. He would tremble at the sound, the corresponding shockwaves distant. Beneath him the horse would then step nervously, edging against the quaking air, until at last the engines faded away, dropping in tone, leaving only the dull white noise behind. It was an odd frequency, deep and penetrating and bizarrely familiar. At a different time and place Klaus would have named it to be the sea, yet the rank stench on the breeze, the glow in the sky, told a different story.

It was the snarl of an inferno, all too recent in memory, this he knew and to this his mind flinched. He curled his nostrils at phantom scents and gritted against painful recollection. And yet he rode ever towards it, unsure even now of his purpose. Certainly he must cross the Rhine, at the single-piered bridge. But just how would this be accomplished? Would the bridge even be there? Could anything have survived those blasts, the wretched heat and wanton destruction? And then what of the police?

There was so much uncertain, it lay like a chilly mist. He felt suppressed, anxiously subdued by the endless variations of annihilation. There was but one hope, the beautiful woman that he had loved, had betrayed so recently. So wretchedly. Klaus grimaced to himself. She waited on the other end of the Earth perhaps, with nothing but a void between them. An untold expanse of waste and shocking danger.

Somewhere ahead, across the Rhine, lay the front.

The backlit sky grew ever in intensity with the false dawn, smoke bulbous and drifting through the night and ground shaking with rippling blasts. They climbed a lone hill on the forest track, soon now he would see the valley and what havoc had been wrought upon it. He unconsciously braced himself for the images, for the memories and the uncontrollable gripping and fixations. Ducking against the cloying spider's threads of stalking psychosis. Klaus knew it would come, he felt it creeping, whispering in his ears like a comfortable threat. So self-assured, such a mind of its own.

Eventually ahead the trees parted, revealing well enough the coals of what had once been a lovely valley, Ettlingen and further Karlsruhe, both devastated but still unmistakable at predawn. Long and twisted furrows of fire rose steadily into the sky, like a field raising the crop of hell, black shrouds chasing upwards and obscuring heaven. It was an ominous sight to which Kelpie, the dark horse, protested gently. She twitched on her feet at once mimicking pity or disgust.

But by now half his mind had gone, lost to screams of agony and collapsed in an slavering stupor. Klaus stared absently ahead, transfixed he saw a soldier's eyes and the driving of his thumbs into soft flesh, flickering light and hot breath on cold air. The twisted form of a man covered in ash, his torso gaping in blood and viscera, lolling out as a filthy slop trailing about him. Intestines were so long and thin, almost absurdly entangling and slick.

Blinking rapidly back, Klaus started to chuckle lightly at this thought, watching a towering lash of flame distant consume some poor soul's home. Where had he seen that man? That memory was new, yet the face was familiar. Hadn't he been a patient? Yes, he had been, the one with that perforated ulcer. What a mess that was. And the smell, quite unmistakable.

He continued to laugh, now remembering a colleague whose hand had kept slipping on serous fluid while attempting retract the man's duodenum, everyone around waiting good-naturedly. The doctor was a decent surgeon, but they had never let him live it down. Klaus then drew out a long sigh, shifting himself in the saddle and feeling bizarrely relaxed at the thought. The patient ended up dying in the end, from sepsis, but there hadn't been much hope in the first place.

A hard and sickly knot of remorse then began to form in his stomach, swiftly, as he guided the horse forward along the trail to descend down into the river valley. Everything was ruined, so clearly. Monika's family was gone, their home was gone, she was gone. He'd never stand again at an operating table, or research, or make his rounds.

And for what? Because he couldn't quit? He had been so afraid and selfish. And greedy. He should have just walked away when he'd first been asked to kill. Honorably pursued another profession instead of violating everything he vowed to protect. The excuse was safety, for his safety and hers, to avoid suspicion and persecution. But it in truth it was his own vanity and unwillingness to sacrifice his lifestyle that doomed him and brought them to this place. It was completely and entirely his fault, from beginning to end.

And now he rode, so black in guilt, to a woman he so clearly did not deserve and in all likelihood would never reach. But it was the only thing left in the charred remains of his life. Flinchingly, currishly, as a dog who rightfully receives the heel he had to continue. If he ever saw her again he would throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness, and take her scorn. And the best, the only possible outcome would be her leaving him.

He was damned and deserving and even still this knowledge broke his heart and sent him reeling.

It was there after all, that organ hidden somewhere in his chest, shrunken in a black pit. A small and stupid thing shattering under the pressure of an unbearable reality.

Klaus swallowed rapidly and urged the horse forward.

Steadily now the world rose grey from the darkness in the trees, illuminated at times by unsteady lights from below. Occasionally a deep bellow would echo through the morning air, some explosion from the cities. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, a familiar and foreign phenomena, and the further he descended the more caustic the atmosphere became. Through watering eyes and with burning breath Klaus watched the sky light in bloody red as the sun climbed, trailing ever closer to the valley the path widened and eventually joined with a larger thoroughfare out of the forest hills. Here the track was deeply rutted with long ridges of mud, churned up from excessive use and generally impassible to motorized travel. Upon it a choke of humanity pressed forward, struggling up the terrain. Men, women, and children. Horses, mules, carts, bicycles. Few precious possessions and what provisions could be found all packed together, laboring in the puddles and cold muck, aggravated by melting snow and the long and hellish night. They moved like ghouls.

Klaus watched them for a moment before turning against the crowd, heading down towards the city. He felt oddly conspicuous upon a well-thrown horse, comparatively fresh to the battered souls trudging up into the hills. Along the skirt of the trees the Kelpie picked up into smooth trot and Klaus posted along for a while before slowing her again, unwilling to put weight on his injured leg. So he continued past the mass of humanity at a walk down further until the outskirts the first farms came, pitted and destroyed in the very same way as those of Stuttgart had been.

It was near the farms with a small sense of tired accomplishment he could then make out, beneath a heavy blanket of smoke and haze, the meandering form of the Rhine. Its waters glistened like the fires all around from the rising sun. He hadn't thought it possible to come this far, yet here he was. Now it would be an unsimple matter of navigating the ruins, locating the bridge, and getting across. But if the bridge remained passable it would almost certainly be heavily guarded, and his pursuers had likely guessed this to be his destination, so to even approach the area would be foolish until he has some kind of plan.

Resignedly Klaus then guided Kelpie off the road, which had now become better in quality but no less packed with desperate foot-traffic, many waiting with long and forlorn faces in the grassy ditches, pale and shaking in the shadow of the trees. Down a smaller lane Klaus rode towards an apparently deserted farmhouse. It had been hit by some kind of explosive, half the walls were missing and debris spilled out in ruinous piles. Rooting around the yard he found what he was searching for, a well and trough for the horse. Gingerly he dismounted and pumped up the frigid water, and while the mare proceeded to drink he loosened her girth strap and breast plate, pulling the saddle from her and with his supply bag setting it aside. Returning he gave her neck a pat. She was a good animal, a Württemberger, warm-blooded and well suited to work in the local terrain. Her hooves were hard and limbs clean, deep withers and an elastic action perfectly agreeable for riding. He remembered when Mr. Bauermann had first purchased her years ago at the local market, only green-broken and still a little skiddish. Monika and he had just started seeing each other and he drove out that afternoon and watched as the older man led Kelpie around the yard, beaming proudly.

"She's a fine beast, this one." he had said in his usual, gruff way while pulling at her mane affectionately. After years of hard work he was finally able to afford a horse simply for his own pleasure, and she would be his pride and joy for as long as Klaus had known him.

With a strangled whine Klaus choked, suddenly overcome, catching himself in Kelpie's sweat-sodden hair and pushing his glasses away. It was all too much, how could he even keep living after what he had done? What right did he even have to see her again? Her parents were as good as murdered by his hand, her livelihood destroyed. If she loved him now she would certainly not after this news.

Monika was better off without him in Paris, she'd always admired the city. She spoke French and Hirth would support her in his absence. There would certainly be a large community expatriates with which to comingle and they might even return after the war was over. What good could he possibly do for her now? What difference did his life even make? In all likelihood he would perish, if not while crossing the Rhine then while attempting to cross the front. She knew she'd never see him again. Looking back it seemed so foolish to think he could even make it in the first place.

With gritted teeth and a brow deeply furrowed Klaus started to sob violently into the horse, gripping the winter hair tightly between his cold fingers as the weight of all his transgressions alighted heavily upon his shoulders. Kelpie's body was warm against the air, her sighs loud and full in his ear creating a strange and vacuous effect. It would be better for it in the end. He deserved nothing. After everything he'd done and everything he'd seen. There would be no recovery for him, no happy ending. No comfort. No light. Klaus wept bitterly there in the farmyard beneath a steely sky, utterly crushed and without will, the world silently spinning away.

How he would do anything to just hold her again, if only for a moment. To talk to her and hear her voice. He never thought he'd need her the way he needed her now and the severity of their separation brayed his heart, leaving him helpless and short of breath. It was a knurled and icy anxiety, twisting deeper with each passing thought and pinning him stark and flinchingly exposed.

There was then a faint pulling at his calf and Klaus looked down, shuddering. Kelpie was sucking his field boot searchingly, ears pricked forward with intent. She was hungry, it seemed. He watched her for a moment, sniffing and wiping mucus away. Then readjusting his glasses and with a long shaking sigh he removed her bridle, leaving the halter rope tucked up and stepping away from her. She simply followed him with soft eyes, head lowered slightly and patiently swaying. He silently returned her gaze, tracing the subtle features of her expression. A handsome animal to be sure.

Quietly he turned towards the old stable and limped on, feeling hollow and exhausted but with purpose. Ahead the stone and wood structure stood at a cocked angle, precariously uprooted and gap-toothed from abuse. It was so oddly quiet out, not even a bird in the February air. So close to springtime and with such death in the silence. The doors lay unhinged and tossed aside and he passed through the darkened portal, pausing a moment for his eyes to adjust. In the musty blackness his presence disturbed inky shapes which slithered like lighting, glowing eyes disappearing in flashes to crevices unseen. He went forward, boots echoing unevenly against the stone floor, scraping aside old hay and dirt. The stalls were all empty save one piled with various tack and other odd equipment. To this he went absently, scanning for and finally located a length of dusty rope hanging unobtrusively from a metal peg. Trembling he retrieved it, feeling the rough fibers slowly between his fingers while glancing upwards to the rafters so obscured by thick cobwebs. Above shafts of light struck glittering and drifting motes like distant snow caught in a cold breeze. With a profound sigh he then seated himself wearily on a nearby bench and began to work the long cord deliberately, unhurriedly, and placidly. It would be better, after all. For it to be the end.

Dry of tears or any scattered affect a noose he tied, with a simple and sturdy knot.

After some time with casual forbearance the black horse appeared at the stable door, gazing inward curiously, expectantly. Standing up Klaus limped towards her, catching her halter line and leading her in, her hooves echoing mutedly. With a jarring scrape against the stone floor he dragged the bench over and stepped up with the long rope over her bare back, seating himself on the dark mare. She shifted gently to the side as with solemn finality he then tossed the noose around a thicker beam above, securing it fast, listening to the chords whisper hoarsely together as he tightened them. It was so quiet out, the winded inferno of the city but a shallow growl. It sounded desolate like a driving gale across some barren steppe.

Ahead of him the stable entrance glared in its light, almost blindingly. It could have been leagues away, a portal to a different world. An alternate time and place where lives remained intact and people happily carried on, oblivious to the faceless futility of this hellish nightmare. Swallowing back a sigh, Klaus fitted the rope around his neck, still staring straight ahead and tightening the fibers against his skin. A different life out there where he and his wife could have been together to their end, happy and hopeful. A world where every morning he could have woken to her sleepy smile and slipped off to work with the memory of her kiss. Where he would come home to her grace and speak openly of his day. An existence untainted by his murders or secrets, without the drinking or will for revenge. Without the sacrifice and the sorrow and the slaughter. Some place not drenched in fire and the stench of death. Not broken into trenches of rubble and shattered concrete, and the pale and rushing screams of horrified helpless souls.

Thoughts seemed to flicker swiftly by as fish in a stream and he failed to grasp them any longer, too quick to catch or comprehend. With hushed pain he only knew a deep, broad void, cold in its impersonality. It stared back at him dead like a trout, unblinkingly, a shaming well in indifference. He could almost observe himself, with such a detachment, and it was then he knew.

Closing his eyes Klaus dug his spurs into the horse, causing her to startle with a grunt and lurch forward. The rope caught and he passed over her, with a shock swinging backwards and jerking against the slack. Pain shot through him as he weighted the line, hearing the beam creak, shaking involuntarily as quiet horror set in against his closed breath. With morbid and frantic satisfaction he then acquiesced, finally, and he hung himself there for an eternity trying desperately to gasp but unable, spitting up and feeling his pulse hammering through his skull, legs kicking involuntarily. He gritted his teeth, feeling dizzy and faint and relaxing into the burning of his lungs. The world faded to grey, black spotting in and then eventually consuming all, washing away the panic, and the suffering, and his miserable heartbreak. It left nothing behind.

(X)

It was with fear and torment in the dark. He spat and foamed with realization and tore at the hands that closed his throat, feeling the agony and searing death all around. It watched him struggle and thrash against a cold and unfeeling earth, he spasming and jerking and stranded, chest on fire. The grip broke then, with a scraping and ravaging reluctance and he swallowed down a single lungful of stinging air. Greedily he panted and sputtered, tearing the rope away, rolling and coughing. Klaus lashed out with his fists at something, anything, groaning at a sudden wash of relief. He opened his eyes, trying to comprehend, but saw little. Everything drifted obscured and moving in a shower of dust and debris. He lay there for a moment, blinking wearily. About him, then he realized, were the fractured remnants of the wooden beam. Dirt hung in the air, chaukily, bringing little else to his sight.

Klaus sat up slowly, feeling a sharp pain in the back of his head as he pulled the noose from his neck, breath rasping in the mildew. He shook reflexively as he removed and smearingly cleaned his glasses, muscles trembling from exhausted strain. His fluttering mind buzzed in a limping cacophony, absent of any piercing thought save for an unusual and aphasiac euphoria leeching inwards. Achingly Klaus bent on hands and knees and rose with a strange cough quite close to a laugh, brushing splinters and roofing away, stumbling out to the glaring entrance of the stable. Blindly outside the sky was brooding and still panting he focused through smudged lenses, a short smile tugging at the edge of his lips, feeling oddly light as if he could drift above the ground to those very low and sullen clouds.

So there was his answer, perhaps he wasn't meant to die after all. Not just yet.

And indeed for such a wasted, pallid countenance the world now seemed a sight nothing short of wonder. To watch his breath rise in the air, to smell yet the sick fumes of a ruptured city mixed with manure and feed from the yard.

Even if he was a hopeless man there was still something here, something for him to hold on to. And it didn't really matter that he would never actually know what it was again.

Quietly then a thought slipped through, low and murmuring and simple.

_Just to see her face_.

Certainly, yes. To lay eyes on her again. To tell her one more time, one last time, that despite everything he loved her. To her ruin and his destruction he loved her. He really could walk the plane of the earth and crawl in blasted ditches of despair just to love her, if that was the last thing to manage, his very last act.

A sad and wistful smile then drew across his lips as he remembered her looking down at him for the last time, her eyes red and swollen from tears, hair strayed and rushing in the propeller stream. She wore an expression at once lost and at peace, like she knew their parting was final. It was reluctant but without violent affect. Just acceptance, wrapped in his overcoat, flying into the rising smoke to the unknown. Did she grieve him as he grieved her? It didn't matter so much anymore.

Just two years ago they had dined out together, the sounds of the terrace humming merrily on a warm summer evening, music drifting amid the smooth lights on a gentle breeze. Their worries had been so distant at that moment and perhaps it was the last time he felt genuinely at ease, despite everything still. They were unburdened, her laughter was sweet as they argued playfully whether or not to go dancing later with several of his colleagues and their wives. Perpetually tired, he would have rather left but she was avid about not wasting their short time together. In the end they spent the hours away, arm in arm, moving through a pleasant cloud of cigarettes and liquor, her smile flashing in the dim lights of the lounge.

It was very late when they finally returned home, a little drunk and quite happy. He hung his hat in the foyer and looked over to her, recognizing instantly the expression on her face as she slowly let her stole fall to the floor. All the frustrating years and trials seemed to slip away then as he went to her, tasting with a new freshness, catching the scent of her dark hair again. Hurriedly they found their way upstairs, youthfully exigent in undressing and feeling a kind of neediness thought long comfortably retired. With flawless detail he could recall every moment of that night. The gentle curve of her back and their quiet moaning. Her smell and her warmth, the suppleness of her embrace. They moved together, as imperfectly as always, but with an intensity that had been absent for some time. It was not long before he lay next to her again, smiling and sweaty, listening to her breathless in the darkness and feeling her hand sneak into his. He couldn't fathom how beautiful she was then, it blew him away like it did when they first had met.

And this was after she had come back to him, after his betrayal and all of the lies and the drinking and the avoidance. They had been together like they had always been, there was no doubt of that. She had loved him right up to the moment they parted.

He had to see her again. Just once more so that she may send him away, regardless of the cost to himself.

Klaus straightened up in the doorway of the stable, adjusting his glasses slightly, and setting his jaw. Paris lay leagues from here but it could be worse. He could be headed east. He could be on foot. He could be maimed. For everything now what was a few hundred kilometers?

With a shuffling gait he then proceeded out into the yard to collect Kelpie, who was feeding from a nearby grain shed split open like a carapace. She looked up, ruminating, watching him curiously as he approached and took her by the lead, patting her gently on the muzzle before walking back to the stable. Inside he found a morral for her and set her to it before moving off to retrieve his own supply bag.

He ate mechanically, resting next the water basin. Above the overcast sky continued to lower and by the time he had re-saddled the horse the first sporadic slivers of rain had begun to fall, drumming impersonally upon the soft earth. Mounting Kelpie again he rode out back onto the main road into town, and continued down the long file of survivors towards the Rhine, past ruined hamlets and craters hot with coals. All manner of destruction could be found, buildings still smoldering stood out amidst bare trees, blackened and thrown askance, guts spilled into the streets and colored occasionally by woeful remains. Klaus passed factories still engulfed in fire, whipping wickedly about in what had escalated into a downpour.

He shuddered in the saddle and fought a cascade of images, but to his surprise and relief was not driven to distraction by the howling trauma, able to push back and control the jarring thoughts. Whether it was from the acknowledgement of his hopelessness or simple conditioning he couldn't be sure, nevertheless this was a heartening development. Blinking out rainwater Klaus found himself able to relax slightly, pushing further into Ettlingen. The streets downtown were mostly deserted save for a few staggering individuals lost in their own heads. A stray dog, limping and grey, licked and chewed at a corpse laying in the gutter, blood tainting the waters into the sewer. A woman wept, distraught and ash-laden, tearing through a pile of rubble with shredded hands. A man sat, half-naked in the cold, staring absently ahead and with glassy eyes clutched a bleeding canvas bag to his chest.

Unaffected and quiet as death Klaus continued past this tableaux of anguish through the blackened and obliterated streets, beyond flayed remains and shattered lives. The fires steamed and guttered, throwing up a fog which settled close to the earth and obscured the panorama in mist. Now on the road directly to Karlsruhe Klaus listened closely to the invisible world ahead, muffled by white mantle. Past the hushed sound of sucking hooves in the wet earth, below the mournful wail of sirens he could determine the steady hum of heavy equipment and many, many engines. Wiping rain from his eyes he considered this information carefully, for it was not surprising. The rail yard had probably been destroyed in the bombing last night, or at the very least lines had been damaged. This would make the tracks over the bridge useless and cause considerable congestion, if that wasn't the case before.

Hopefully it would actually play into his favor. Klaus frowned thoughtfully. Assuming he could get onto the bridge, the overcrowding might allow him to evade the police and slip through their net. Certainly a mounted contingent would be passing through in one form or another. There would be no way to know for sure until he actually observed the situation though.

He crossed the tracks south of the railway station, growing more nervous the further into the city he went. The roadway, already pitted and littered with debris, became increasingly difficult to ascertain and the fog only grew thicker as time passed. Soon it was a heavy blanket, washing out anything more than a few blocks away. The rain continued rushing over the ash-coated ruins, creating rivers of ink and puddles of murky grey. There were people still, though many had taken shelter, huddled beneath lopsided awnings and gazing emptily from shelled out structures like lost children. For motorized traffic the previously broad avenue was entirely impassible, the horse gingerly finding her path amid broken glass and past precarious trenches of exposed pipeworks. Many of the trees that had lined the thoroughfare had been blasted apart and felled in the night's violence, cast aside as casually as matchsticks. Amid these and still-burning cars they had to navigate, at times even leaving the main road to work around an impasse.

All of this, coupled with the fog, made the city hard for Klaus to identify and he found himself quite close to being lost on a few occasions, unable to recognize old landmarks amid the destruction. He was tense, feeling locked in by the haze and dreadfully exposed. It left him little time to react if he came across the police, although at the same time his movements were masked and he might be able to disappear rapidly. Above rain continued to pour, creating an odd and sodden smell in the air of death and cinders. Kelpie's mane lay stuck to her neck as she sighed irritably in the damp and continued to plod along the ruined roads.

Eventually they came to a broad intersection and some distance from it Klaus peered hesitantly through the mist, trying to discern who might be in the square, for ahead he could hear a few vehicles idling. They were nearer the bridge now and simply running out into that open space could prove disastrous. He halted the horse and strained his eyes into the rolling vapor. It flowed in and out like an ebbing wave, but he could make out the dark silhouette of a transport truck before the its bulky form was consumed again. There was then a whinny in the distance, of a horse, but no other hints than the low mumbling of engines.

Kelpie shifted nervously as Klaus sat there, trying to decide how to proceed. While he knew he was near the bridge, he wasn't entirely sure how close. This might be one of the arterial routes along the way, but there were many squares in this section of the city. Puzzled, he then guided the dark horse out of the road and to the buildings, hoping to remain more inconspicuous near the walls. Perhaps it might be better to head out to the Rhine and follow it down to the bridge, thereby avoiding disorientation.

But while it seemed like a viable plan, this would cost him a route of escape.

Frustrated and unsure of what to do next Klaus continued to search ahead into the square, hoping for some kind of sign inform his decisions. But no signal came, the mist would not recede any further and he heard nothing riding the cold air but the roar of fires and the occasional deep reverberation of some structure collapsing.

Then, with a kind of coiling start cutting through his stomach two figures came into view from the fog, moving in his direction. Klaus tightened on the reigns and Kelpie took a few hesitant steps backwards as he watched with slow horror as they walked on, clearly holding rifles of some kind. He couldn't tell yet who they were, police or army, and if he ran that may give them cause to shoot or pursue him. Did they hear him approach the square? Or see him? Perhaps they'd only want to direct him away from this area. In any case fleeing was no longer an option without inviting some kind of debacle.

So Klaus waited for them to come closer, despite everything he'd rather do at that moment, making his best effort to look nonchalant with trembling hands. Soon it was obvious the two were army personnel and one waved as he approached, his actions smart though his face was very tired. He looked Klaus over quickly and with slight perplexion before speaking.

"Hello there," he said exhaustedly, "I'm sorry but we can't let you come through here, you'll be impeding vital traffic."

"Then," Klaus replied slowly, feigning confusion, "what am I going to do? I don't know where to go."

"Where do you need to go?" the other man responded, every bit as weary as his partner.

"The river. I'm lost though, I have no idea where I am. If I could just get there I'd be able to find my way around."

The first man to speak nodded before gesturing out into the square, "If you go that way," he started, "you'll hit a road that'll take you right to it. You can go on ahead through here if you need."

Klaus returned the nod, "I'll do that then," he said and pressed the horse forward, "thank you for your help." He was filled with an immense wash of relief as the two walked away, and he rode in the direction the man had gestured, soon espying the roadhead he spoke of.

It looked like he'd be using the river after all, which was probably as good an option as any at this point. Nothing could be predicted beyond things getting more dangerous the closer he got to the State personnel waiting to cross over the water. It might be beneficial to find a place, perhaps some abandoned home, to tie the horse and then proceed on foot to survey the area. Klaus contemplated, trying to weigh his options while moving down the modest street, listening to the horse scrape on and taking a moment to wipe the rain from his eyes again.

He almost didn't notice the blockade ahead through the mist until it was too late. Looking up he immediately halted the horse, gaping with shock at the concrete barricade that seemed to have risen from nowhere, cordoning the road off from the waterfront street that lay further beyond.

_Shit. _

_Oh shit._

The men that stood here were a mix of police and soldiers, heavily armed, and of course they had spotted him. He couldn't have been more obvious if he had taken a riding leap over the barriers.

Klaus's heart started to race, swallowing back a hot and sick feeling while watching as one of the men stepped out from beneath a canvas shelter, walking towards him. He could practically hear his pulse skipping in his ears as he watched, like in slow motion, the man move casually to his position, without alarm or too severe a suspicion.

What to do? Was there anything? He had just committed his final act of stupidity, this was it. So he wouldn't be seeing Monika again after all, as it was obviously destined to be this way from the start. Klaus's mind race at a thousand kilometers an hour, at once running and rejected every wild scenario he could grasp and waiting patiently for officer to walk up and shoot him.

The rain continue to pour in a ruthless fashion.

Just how long would it be before he was recognized? It wouldn't take too much time, he figured. Maybe a few minutes. He didn't have any papers and absolutely no excuse for being out here on a horse.

Klaus swallowed, now started to shake visibly, frozen where he sat in the saddle.

As the officer approached a strange change started to come over his face. What was an impassive or even stoic expression began to slowly transform into a squinting scowl. He scrutinized Klaus, still striding forward, and then with a great suddenness his expression lighted, eyebrows shooting upwards.

At the same time his hand whipped down to his sidearm.

And the stillness of the street was shattered.


	10. Chapter 10

Single seconds wheeled on for days as Klaus watched the officer raise his weapon. With excruciating clarity he felt his own heels striking downwards to the collected horse, her powerful loins contracting like ripcord upon contact the very same moment the pistol was level with him. With a lurch forward the air beside his shoulder compressed, near instantaneously reverberating with the crack of a gunshot. In a great beastly surge Kelpie charged ahead and the officer was forced to leap aside from her storming path. Klaus ducked low in the saddle as she broke unchecked into a gallop, hammering on the pavement and barreling for the roadblocks.

Blinded by the lashing rain and wild motion he could not identify the other blurry forms rippling towards their position. Gunshots and shouts snapped all around, echoing through the muddy street as they raced for the barricade, the reigns slipping painfully through his injured hand. There was a grunt and he saw through the corner of his eye gloved fingers stretching out and with a violent snatch grasping his coat and pulling him off balance. But with a sudden lurch the distance was closed and they tore away, airborne and rising over the poles.

Kelpie let out a horrendous scream as they crashed into the razor-wire lining the other side, stumbling her landing and nearly falling to her knees as she kicked frantically off. Like a snare the wires tightened and closed about them, tearing into the horse's legs and letting great streams of blood. Startled, Klaus fought to rein her back but in a craze she thrashed and howled, attempting to rear uselessly before losing her footing on the slick pavement. With painfully slow consciousness Klaus felt them go down, hearing the world with an instant of clarity all the voices and gunfire.

They collapsed into the razor nest, he grunted as he slammed into the pavement, searing blades cutting through his arms. With a rush air left his lungs but he immediately fought sluggishly to gain his feet, wrenching his leg free from the limp horse. With a strange moment of recognition he saw that she was dead, shot through, but he took no moment of hesitation and began to scramble panting through the entangling mess.

Focused in pain like an animal he twisted and ducked along the steel maze, hauling the supply bag with him, hearing ricochet and shout and feeling a hot burning develop along his calf. With a grateful lunge he shot out free from the trap and broke into excruciating sprint, boots faltering on slick concrete. A wild second later he was turned down a narrow alley, scrambling over broken glass and piles of debris, not thinking. The world was clear and he moved with it reflexively, vaulting with unreal strength over refuse, low and weaving and putting every meter possible between himself and his pursuers.

They continued to cry and curse and bellow behind him, but the gunshots became less frequent before halting entirely. With a backwards glance Klaus saw only the barriers he had crossed and with a sharp reflex turned down another alley to throw his pursuers off. Space contracted, there was no time to think, yet the world seemed silent but for his strained breath and pounding heart and the hammering of his boots on mud and stone. Another turn and he started to calm slightly amid the deep and muffled bones of the city still smoldering, pursuers long out of sight.

Splashing unceremoniously through a deep puddle he ducked into the gaping entrance of a building, instinctively seeking the gutted chambers toward the back. It appeared to have once been a bakery, though he saw little that resembled such a familiar establishment as he slipped past a shattered display counter, all that remained were damp charcoal smears and crooked appliances. Finding a particularly dark corner in the kitchen Klaus crouched down into it, trying to calm his breathing and suddenly feeling a spiteful pain erupt from his leg. Baited, he tenderly felt around the knee, noting the fluid that had begun to swell in the joint. Then there was another, more slick sensation. It was only then he realized he'd been hit, a bullet had grazed the back of his calf carving a bloody crescent through the skin.

The injury wasn't so grievous, but regardless it was a frightening discovery. Klaus leaned back against the tiled wall, exasperated and shaking, doing his best to calm down, fogging breath condensing on his glasses and feeling ever damper, chilled, and feverish.

He listened carefully to the outside world beyond the sloppy murmurs of the downpour. Any sign, any footstep could be hidden indeed amid the scrabbling echoes, but he detected not a sound out of place through the endless needling of the rain. With slow and deliberate movements, haltingly to listen, he then started into the supply bag for some bandaging, feeling gingerly about through the meager contents.

Just outside the kitchens in the front of the shop a crush of glass was disturbed.

Klaus felt his whole body drain as he froze, half-panicked, trying desperately to form any thought. Another instant and he was up crouching, a severe limp dragging himself low and carefully below counter-height, searching through the blasted wooden cupboards for anything. A steel glint revealed a small promise. Klaus picked out the long serrated knife from splintered wood, gripping it tightly. He paused, hearing still again slow shuffling and uncertain as to what to do, as to any odds or possibilities. Compulsively he was moving again, a maimed beggar in the dark, stealing against a wall and hiding in wait, breath ragged and shallow, hair sodden and dripping. Flattened near the buckled cooling racks he held himself short, peering tensely through obscured lenses, not a single thought passing through his mind. Time seemed to stretch forever as he waited in space, in the dripping grayness of that kitchen, poised on the edge of an abyss.

A footstep, a shodden foot in the doorway and he sprung, rushing forward with all the ferocity of entrapment at his heels. Registering a gun too late, a hand – his hand – a knife driving for the other's chest and glancing uselessly against mounds of winter fabric. With a vicious heave the man slammed bodily into Klaus, shoving him back, grappling for the knife. Painfully twisted under the onslaught he felt his knee start to give way as it bore the weight of the attack. In a stilted and desperate struggle he lashed out and dragged the officer down with him, pitted muscle for muscle. They hit the mud and tile unevenly, the iron grip on the knife loosening just perceptibly. With a wrench and half second later he was looking on into an expression of shock, the man twitching and coughing and smearing the blood which poured from his gaping throat.

Klaus shivered in the kitchen, watching him, slowly remembering the rest of the world and the aching rain. Carefully he picked himself up, pocketing the dropped pistol and ammunition from the dying man, pausing to try and form any thought or action beyond clouded senses. He staggered, his head swimming under the weight of the dark and cold kitchen, the presence of the man and the blood and the yawning maw of his situation. The uncertainty however lasted only moment, and with automatic and nearly uncritical actions he gathered the supply bag and hobbled to peer cautiously out into the storefront. It appeared as though the fight had gone by unnoticed, though there were sure to be more police around. Quietly he shambled low out of the kitchens, wary of the windows and street, only aware that he could no longer stay in the bakery.

The avenue remained empty save for dust and debris and wells formed from the downpour. Furtively he slipped across the road to another building blasted unholy, his leg paining him ferociously and his injured hand stinging from the other man's blood. It was with a bizarre and reeling determination he moved, nearly side-long in exasperated and mindless effort, no concept of hope or planning. Just the endless cascade of actions, falling rhythmically into one another like the relentless beating of the rain. Slogging ankle-deep through water Klaus mounted the stairway to a townhouse, drawing himself heavily up with his good hand along the railing.

An instant later and he found himself thrown backwards with a brutal force and a flash in his vision. His world upended, his leg hyperextended, a gasp and a flail emitted as he saw in slow motion his attacker presented before succumbing to a tidal pull. In an explosion of muck he crashed into the deep puddle of the street, completely disoriented and writhing in the mess, all possibilities forgotten. Spitting up water and unable to see he fought weakly against a grapple, nearly vomiting from a savage blow to the gut. Thrown over he felt his hands restrained concretely in front of him before being dragged roughly onto drier pavement. With blinded silt-laden eyes he searched about for any target to strike, struggling to right himself with cuffed hands. This invited a kick that sent him sprawling on his back, coughing through the pain. Klaus curled, gasping silently as a fish, heart pounding relentlessly.

"Hey! I got him!" a winded and weary voice called from somewhere overhead before two groping hands started to move about his person searchingly, finally locating the pistol and removing it.

Moments continued to hurtle by, Klaus writhing in the mud as footsteps sounded through the downpour. Another kick laid him flat and he then settled back compliantly, ceasing his struggle and attempting to regain his breath. Klaus then squinted, trying to make out his assailant. Only blurry shapes came through stinging vision, the form of one man and several others approaching.

"Good work." one of them said.

"He came out of the bakery over there, that Amsel was clearing."

"Amsel come out?"

"No."

Two of the men went off into the bakery and Klaus rested, doing his best to collect himself through the pain now raging in his body, feeling hot and stressed despite the freezing earth. After a short period there was a call.

"Amsel's dead, sir."

There was a long pause as the rain continued its endless procession. An audible sigh. Out of the corner of his eyes Klaus just caught a glimpse of another foot come careening into his side, snagging a rib and with a shock surely breaking it. He gasped through clenched teeth and fought the staggering need to retch, head spinning.

"You fucker!" came a cold cry and a harsh bark, "Get him out of here!"

Roughly he was then hauled by the shoulders and forced to stand upright, though his injured knee failed immediately, useless. Jerking forward he limped, half dragged along by two men towards some unknown destination in a bleary world. He felt cold and pained, not knowing what was to happen. Yet at the same time there was a pronounced absence of panic within him. No slithering fear wrapping itself around every chord and crevice. Instead he was possessed by a profound feeling of emptiness, untethered and completely hollow. Death was coming sure as the rain and it no longer seemed necessary to ponder the particulars of his fate. Resigned he only struggled to move, neither aiding or resisting his captors.

Quietly he regretted not being more careful, but for some reason this outcome seemed entirely reasonable if not inevitable, there was no greater consciousness beyond coldness. He had, at the very least, fulfilled his obligations and had gotten Monika to safety. Any other success truly was gratuitous.

After an agonizing distance the silence of the misty backstreets gradually gave way to a general clamor of vehicles and horses and men. They neared a staging area for the military and after another long march passed into a building which appeared to be a private residency. The floors creaked as the three men moved along the hallways, silent, then through a door down into the cellar. The atmosphere radiated the chill and damp, and the busy street outside faded to eerie silence with each sinking step.

Klaus was seated in a chair, his hands cuffed behind him to it. Gratefully he rested his leg and watched the unsure images of the two men remount the stairs and disappear above. There he waited, for a protracted period it seemed, straining his ears for any sound from the outside world though none were offered but for the vacant echo of emptiness. There, seated and injured, he felt his mind start to wander. From wound to wound to the dirt on the floor. It was odd that they had chosen not to simply execute him, after the distance and the struggle and the nature of his crimes. It would seem then, that they wanted information. A confession maybe? Though that could just as easily be fabricated in the paperwork.

After some time the quiet solemnity of the basement of was disturbed, the cellar door swinging open and several officers descending the steps. Klaus continued to rest, head down, half bracing for whatever was to come. In the mire of pain and weariness images flitted across his mind like evening swallows. The warmth of summer sunlight etched against the dark conifers of the forest, endless rows of vines and the hillsides and the baking of the hard earth beneath them, people milling about at the market. Places he had wandered and the sights, the sounds and smells that remained. He sighed, drifting away and wondering, tired. Whatever came after death it would be a relief. It was hard to believe sometimes, that anything could be so sweet as the life he had already lived. Yet even the promise of peace and rest, in annihilation, was enough to be a comfort.

"Klaus von Gersdorff," came a voice from elsewhere, unfamiliar, "I don't have much time to waste on you, so let me be clear. You are a murderer, a traitor, and have resisted arrest. Do you deny any of this?"

"No." Klaus replied, still not lifting his head to look at the man who addressed him.

"Then you are aware of how we will deal with you. There will be no clemency. However," there was a pause, "we also know that you did not act alone. Your surgical assistants have already been brought to justice, but there were others. To this end we may be of assistance to one other. Do you understand me?"

Klaus did not answer, wrenched out of quiet apathy with a pang of icy regret. The assistants were not informed about what was occurring, not entirely. The risk of exposure had been too great, though he wished he could have gained their willing consent. Nadel had in fact fled the operating room during his last surgery. The only other option though, actually aiding the State through their facilities, was equally unconscionable no matter how difficult it would have been for some of them to realize.

"Mr. von Gersdorff, either you provide this information voluntarily or we will extract it from you." The man continued, "I'm sure you realize what we are bargaining here, and it is more than you deserve. Treachery is a serious enough offense, but now I have to inform the family of the agent you murdered earlier – a man devoted to public service – that he will not be coming home today." Again, there was a lengthy pause, "What will I tell Mrs. von Gersdorff when we are finished here, I wonder?"

Klaus snapped his head up, staring at his interrogator.

_Oh my god._

The man – one of medium build, well-proportioned, and dressed in plainclothes as the rest of the officers – gave a dry chuckle. "Ah, so I see that's enough to bring you to attention. Yes, we have apprehended her. And your actions here will determine much of how we proceed."

Klaus's mind started to race, above all things with wild despair. How could this have happened? They had flown away, they should have crossed the border easily into France and beyond the front lines. Hirth was an exceptional pilot, or so he had said. With such a small fabric aircraft, low to the earth, they should have been able to slip by. What had happened? Engine trouble? Were they shot down?

This was it. It was over, he had failed in the only thing he needed to accomplish. His only desire left in the world thwarted. She was not safe. She would be killed, just as he would. Klaus looked up at the man, whose eyes met his own unflinchingly. He couldn't believe it. It simply couldn't be.

"How?" he asked through a thick voice.

"How?" the man responded.

"How did you capture my wife?"

"I'm sure you can understand, Mr. von Gersdorff, information of that sort is not something I can divulge to you." The man continued, pulling over a chair for himself before being seated, facing Klaus.

Klaus watched the man, carefully, before responding, "If I'm dead anyway, what difference does it make?"

"Exactly, Mr. von Gersdorff. It makes no difference in this scenario, and I choose to follow protocol rather than break it." There was a pause, "However, before we neutralize you there is the matter of your accomplices." He looked somewhat empathetic, "I need this information and to resort to more forceful interrogative techniques in this situation would be unfortunate. For you, for me. For your wife, if you understand me."

"I understand you."

"Good."

"I want to see her."

The man gave another mirthless smile, close to a grimace, "That's out of the question. I'm not here to offer conditions to the likes of you."

"I don't believe you have her." Klaus responded, setting his jaw and glaring. In truth though, he didn't quite know what to think. The one hold he had, the one certainty upon which he had relied was now called into question. It felt as though the very earth beneath him had started to slip.

"Are you really in the position to make those kinds of gambles? Over her well-being?" the man replied, with slight ire, "Let me be perfectly clear with you, if you do not cooperate her fate will be match yours exactly. Do you really want to be responsible for that?"

In the depths of the cellar a sound from the outside world then penetrated, impugning the cold detachment in the subterranean chamber. It took the form of a crazed and ominous rumble, which tremored through the paved floor and set the hairs on the back of Klaus's neck to stiffen in visceral understanding.

The door to the cellar flew open, a voice calling down, "Sir! They've detonated the bridge!"

Instantly the man rose to his feet, "Ready the cars and get him upstairs." he ordered before mounting the steps quickly and disappearing above.

Klaus was uncuffed from the chair roughly then, by the other men, and hauled to his feet. Exhausted after all the effort in the day he could barely stand under his own power, his knee was stiff and had swollen severely, though the bleeding in his calf finally seemed to have stopped.

Upstairs there was chaos all around, papers being gathered and some others burned in wastebaskets and officers at various intervals moving quickly. They passed into the street, where Klaus could hear the revving and heavy rumble of equipment on the move. In front of them two black cars parked on the curb among others, waiting. Into the back of one he was unceremoniously shoved and sat, handcuffed and at gunpoint, doing his best to rest against the stress and uncertainty. The rain had started to slacken off in the time he had been in the basement, however long that had lasted. The streets glistened in a dull manner, deep puddles reflecting a gray and lifeless sky. Various men, all dressed inconspicuously in a uniform kind of way, were coming and going between a few houses on the avenue, moving luggage and piling them into cars. It was a bizarre sort of operation, almost practiced, preformed with muted actions and hushed voices.

The whole scenario was unusual, Klaus reflected. He didn't quite know, not exactly, but it seemed that the officer had been lying about Monika. Even then, was it because the man was a bad interrogator? Or were his personal hopes clouding his judgment? For if they truly had her, then he would have no choice but to divulge all he could in the bleak promise that she would be spared his fate, though in all likelihood she would be put to death regardless. It was also strange that there was no mention of Hirth, who in fleeing would have clearly implicated himself in their subterfuge. How could they have missed him in their investigation? Perhaps it was sheer luck.

So if Hirth had in fact escaped investigation, then naming him and his assistants would jeopardize them all. But if he refused to cooperate, they might resort to torturing Monika for information in addition to killing her.

Klaus sighed, leaning further into the seat. It was so difficult to ascertain the truth. How could they have possibly gotten Monika and not Hirth? Or not know about Hirth? Perhaps he was dead already and they had resorted to Monika for information. His stomach dropped.

Perhaps she was already dead.

He frowned, closing his eyes. It was too much, an overwhelming sense of sorrow and failure began to worm its way insipidly through his gut. It was all useless. All the pain and fear. He might as well have spent his final moments with her instead of separating them, if they were in fact fated to die so clearly with everyone else. Instead of running and scrambling and losing himself in all the chaos. It was madness. Klaus continued to watch the packing of various paraphernalia – radio units, typewriters, reams of paperwork – continue to be piled in various vehicles.

How could they have hoped for anything else?

Several more officers then climbed into the car and after only a few moments they started away, moving quickly through the desecrated streets against the rising flow of military personnel. A strange sense of doom seemed to permeate the air and hang upon every face. It was not a reeling echo of self-pity or fear, but something else. A kind of acceptance, a surety of annihilation. There was no way out, all avenues were closed now.

He wondered why they didn't just shoot him. What point could this investigation possibly have, when the enemy armies were so clearly about to cross the Rhine? They would roll unhindered to Berlin, the regime would fall, yet like a beheaded chicken the mechanisms of the State would continue to spasm in these final days, cart blanche executions and all. No mercy, senselessly pursuing some bizarre idea of justice. It was stupid. It was pointless. All the time better spent preparing for the days to come after the war. The heavy reparations. The protracted famines, subjugation and dissolution.

Klaus sighed, watching the car ahead peel away the boiling mists which still lay heavy on the roads. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind long and filthy channels amid the ruts and stones. They bounced along, causing him to wince in pain amid so many afflictions. His body could not take much more abuse, that final run had rendered his leg useless. His fractured rib made breathing an ordeal and his hand was at risk for an infection. It was a miracle he had not taken ill yet, though it was surely coming.

Bracing his elbows against the seat Klaus shifted slightly to take some stress off of his ribs. Outside the battered remains of Karlsruhe eventually gave way to the forested hills of the countryside. Had this been any other situation, had he been in better physical condition, there might be an opportunity to escape. But as of now he wouldn't make it ten meters before being shot. He doubted he'd be able to walk at all in a few hours with so much inflammation in his knee.

Then even if he could escape, where would he go? If they had captured Monika it was pointless to try – a fact they were probably entirely aware of. It was paralyzing, this question. But if they didn't actually hold her, the longer he remained captive the further and further east he would travel, injured, all the closer to execution. Was self-preservation worth the effort and agony it would bring him? Could he do it even if that meant her suffering?

Klaus sighed. The ride had thus far been silent, the other men in the car contemplative and set. He found it curious that they did not speak, though his presence might be the reason why. They were all about his age, dressed discretely as their profession dictated, and bore the same expression of haggard weariness about them. The one in the back seat with him, holding the pistol, kept glancing out the window warily. As they rose up into the hills the mists gave way, offering an uninhibited view of the destruction behind them.

It was a saddening and maddening revelation, as smoke climbed churlishly from the wreckage and the fog. Towers and houses, charred and torn like a rotten scab, piercing through at odd intervals. It was awesome to even consider that souls still crawled amid the ruined heaps, worthlessly, stretching their existence into a broken promise. Klaus was loathe to imagine what had happened to Stuttgart, what he should see there in the light of day. Though perhaps the thought was not as offensive now as it was in the past. Reality had been difficult, yet overwhelmingly consistent of late.

But the remains of Karlsruhe were not apparently what had interested the officer with the gun, for he continued to peer with concern behind them, squinting his eyes past the devastation. After a few moments he finally spoke, pointing back.

"Look, those are the planes!" he with a regretful kind of excitement, "The ones with the strange engines."

The officer in the front passenger seat bent around to take a look out the small window. Sure enough the faint marks of large aircraft could just be seen in the distance, uncommonly massive with an odd tail that came to the shape of a T. "What about them again?" the officer asked disinterestedly, turning back around.

"They scream," the other replied, still looking behind them, "It's a weird noise, I don't know how to describe it. They can move faster and farther. I heard one can make it from Sydney to Istanbul without refueling."

"Bullshit. There's no way they could still carry cargo."

"Hey, that's just what I heard," the man replied, "and who knows if it's true? But you know what they've been saying, and I haven't seen a single one of our planes in the sky for over a week now."

"Our planes are where they need to be." the driver said flatly.

The officer with the pistol continued to watch the aircraft, which hung eerily in the air. They seemed to be fixed in place as great and strange omens. "I think they're going to fly over us," he said after a while, somewhat nervously.

From the front seat the other man turned around again, more urgently. After a short while it became apparent there were eleven of the aircraft in formation, though they still hung with little apparent motion some ways distance. Then, with a quiet kind of horror those figures started to bloom, exploding in breadth and girth. They were of monstrous proportions, with two massive engines and great drooping wings unlike anything Klaus had seen before.

And the noise they produced was tremendous, setting shocks of cold down his spine and the hot sickness of intuitive panic in his gut. What started as a low whine quickly erupted into a cascading screech which reverberated through the air with obscene indiscretion. It felt as though their ears would split, the sound was so permeating with an echo and a roar.

In an instant the great aircraft had passed over them, the thunder in their wake rolling and quaking. Everything seemed to buzz in the trail of the retreating planes with a kind of electric energy. Klaus watched the other men in the car, who had gone pale and muted.

"Heaven and earth…" the driver muttered, absently, stooping low to follow the planes until they were lost amid the trees.

"See, that's what I was talking about," the officer with the pistol said, "it's completely unreal, those things. And you see those engines? No propellers." There was a pause, "What kind of aircraft doesn't need propellers?"

To that none of the other officers responded, frozen in reflective silence. It was a fair enough question, truly, though the appearance of the planes had more been deeply unsettling. This Klaus understood sure enough.

The car in front of them then pulled over to the side of the road and their driver followed suit. It was a few minutes before anything happened, they simply waited there amid the dark and towering trees, engines humming and exhaust pipes smoking. Then a few men got out of the front car, moving towards the boot. Inside there was a portable radio, which one operated as the other lit a cigarette. After a while the passenger side officer then got out and walked over to join the men, discussing something.

Klaus watched them uneasily. He had no idea where they were going, but the appearance of those aircraft – whatever they were – seemed to be a fateful sign.

Minutes went by, the perhaps one half an hour before the man on the radio was finished. There was a quick discussion between the three before the passenger side officer returned to their car. Instead of resuming his position in the front seat however, he came to the rear door.

"Alright Mr. von Gersdorff, it's time to get out of the car."

Klaus looked up at the man, time suddenly slowing to tremulous seconds. He could hardly stand and was half dragged from the vehicle before he was finally freed, open on the ground, hands still bound before him. The officers stood around, a few pulling casually on cigarettes.

"Given present circumstances the decision has been reached to close this investigation." one of the men said, though Klaus could no longer understand who. The road seemed endless, it could have stretched forever. Its surface was infinitely imprecise, ragged and coarse. A contradiction to how slick it actually felt. How smooth it could really be.

With a slight push he and the officer with the pistol then started away from that road. He staggered under his own weight, over the soft pine cushion beneath his feet. The air was chilled, freezing it seemed though spring should not have been so very far away. Snow still lay thick in shaded areas, though it was sickly and pock-marked from pummeling rain and the slow degrade of time. The sky above was too bright for an overcast day, with dark trees arching away like the bars of a cage. Everything was still and taut, like it could crack the instant should something dare to pluck it. Like a single shout could blast away bark, could blow the needles into the air.

Nothing was to be heard though but for the cold crunch, the lolling idle and exhaust, his own breath. Fading in and out.

Another push and his leg twitched and buckled in pain, and he was upon his knees. Settled on the cold and soft forest ground, damp seeping in from the earth. He thought he could feel, just outside the edge of consciousness, a humming sensation. A low trembling in the forest floor as if the roots themselves held some sort of vast rhythm. It seemed to slip away as soon as it was grasped, as a thought locked in a dream.

And not a sound in the air but for the cold breathing. Not a sound. With colors bright and etched as rust.

So that was it, it was the end. As though a great second hand had come unceremoniously to a halt. Somewhere on the side of the road away from Karlsruhe. Amid a cold winter forest.

Pained, Klaus closed his eyes, bracing. Outside his vision he could sense the hand of the officer rise and level, in a vast span of time. What could there be in a last moment, other than a flicker soon extinguished. He thought of her in a flash more feeling than memory. Everything that they had held in so many years too few.

It was enough for him.

In that moment where there could never be more.

But then there was a moment where he couldn't quite remember what was happening, but he could be certain then there was a shout. There were gunshots behind him. Klaus turned to look around back at the road with surprise to see his executioner running towards the other officers, they were taking cover by the cars.

Without hesitation and lunging up on his good leg Klaus moved towards deeper into the forest, half hopping as useless as it was, overcome with a wild flash of hope. Recovered from a hair's breadth of death. Hands still cuffed he struggled to balance himself and to stifle a coarse and unexpected smile. It seemed like an endless distance, but ahead he was certain there was a drop in the terrain and perhaps a hope of concealment within. Time was agonizing yet splendid as he limped along, closing the final few meters to the edge of the slope. Klaus then started down, gratefully, half sliding on the needles slick with frost leading into the small gulley. There at the bottom then he lay himself down carefully beneath a thicket and remained, on a cold patch of snow, breathing heavily and absently watching it rise into the sky. He stilled himself and listened, exhausted from his efforts and deeply bothered by his wounds, yet alive all the same.

Distantly now, above the sounds of a nearby stream, the firefight still continued, echoing abruptly through the trees. There were men shouting to each other loud and hoarsely in what sounded like English. Then with a shock and a shudder there was an explosion, and just like that it was over. The gunfire ceased, and the muffling silence of the forest seemed to descend again to blanket everything in hushed tones.

Klaus sighed, fighting a creeping smile and rising hope. There could be little doubt as to the outcome of the fight. What was more, it would appear that the area would come under control of the enemy forces. It couldn't have been better luck, it was a godsend. After a little medical attention he'd simply have to make his way to Paris, without fear of capture or imprisonment or execution.

He had done it.

Klaus didn't quite know what to feel then, or what exactly he was feeling. It was a strong, very nearly overwhelming sense of relief mixed with a robust kind of bitterness, even resentment for the exhaustion and the injury and the weight of his experience. Yet it was pleasant all the same, like the warmth of the sun after a long and harsh winter, a sweet permission to relax. He felt as though he could fall asleep in that thicket, and finally rest.

But the snow was cold and the forest barren, and with a little reluctance he picked himself back up. It was difficult, looking upon that slope again, to imagine how he would climb with the condition his knee was in. Klaus stood there for a moment, considering his options.

Then, almost as if on cue, a man appeared at the edge of the gulley.

And Klaus immediately recognized him, it was unmistakable.

The man was an Australian.

* * *

**Note:**

Don't sass me about updates. They are ready when they are ready and I reneg on time estimates fairly often. I write for fun, I write for myself, I'm not really sure why I post here. Probably because an audience can be important, be it one person or one thousand.

But let me be perfectly clear. Your opinions, comments, or suggestions have absolutely no bearing whatsoever on the story content, style, or frequency of updates. Or anything else for that matter. I would still write and post without them. And if I choose to prioritize bills, studying, training, and cleaning over a hobby. Well.

You get my point.


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